THE 

YARDSTICK 

MAN 


^^ 

ARTHUR  GOODRICH 


YARDSTICK   MAN 


"Mabel,  pouncing  forward,  snatched  the  telegram  rudely  from  her 

hands." 

[Page  179.] 


YARDSTICK    MAN 


BY 

ARTHUR  GOODRICH 

Author  of 

"The  Balance  of  Power."  "Gleam  o*  Dawn," 
"The  Lady  Without  JeweU,"  etc. 


D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY 

NEW    YORK    AND    LONDON 

1910 


COPYRIGHT,  1910,  BY 
ARTHUR  GOODRICH 


Published  September,  1910 


TO 
W.    H.   D. 


2229097 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I. — A  BELATED  WARNING     .       .       .  .  1 

II. — MR.  JONES  CONSIDERS  .       .       .  .  8 

III. — A  LETTER  AND  THE  PROPRIETIES  .  17 

IV. — OUTBURSTS        .       .       .       .       .  .  32 

V. — A  GREAT  PLAN  AND  AN  ARRIVAL  .  55 

VI. — PARDNERS .  80 

VII. — MATHEWSON  DISCOVERS  SOMETHING  IN 

A  NEWSPAPER 113 

VIII. — AND  MEETS  AN  OLD  FRIEND       .       .134 
IX. — MABEL  WRIGHT  HAS  A  DREAM  COME 

TRUE 155 

X. — MRS.  JONES  CASTS  HERSELF  LOOSE   -     171 

XI. — THE  YARDSTICK  MAN    .       .       ,       .     205 

XII. — MATHEWSON 's  PLAN  DOES  Nor  WORK    233 

XIII.— GOBLINS     .       .       .       .       .       ..242 

XIV.— THE  CRISIS       ......     255 

XV. — OVER  THE  TELEPHONE   .       .       ...     271 

XVI.— THE  ONLY  WAY  OUT     .       .       .       .279 

XVII. — READJUSTMENTS 287 

XVIII.— A  NEW  ROSALIND 315 

XIX.— THE  PARSON'S  FEE        .       .       .       .322 
XX.— DADDY  325 


THE   YARDSTICK   MAN 


CHAPTER  I 
A   BELATED   WARNING 

I    SUPPOSE   I   oughtn't   to   have  told  you,"   he 
said,  still  speaking  quietly,  "  but  I  haven't  for- 
gotten how  white  you  were  to  me  up  in  Butte." 

The  tall  man  seemed  not  to  hear.  He  was  staring 
past  him  and  through  the  window  down  the  narrow, 
irregular  street. 

"  Besides,  I'm  not  supposed  to  know  anything 
about  it.  I've  just  put  two  and  two  together,  that's 
all." 

There  was  another  pause.  He  did  not  notice  that 
the  tall  man's  big  knotty  fist  was  clenched. 

"  And  there  isn't  a  thing  anybody  can  do  to  block 
it  now.  I  just  told  you  to  keep  it  from  hitting  you 
all  in  a  heap." 

He  paused  again. 

"  I  probably  wouldn't  have  mentioned  it  anyhow, 
if  you  hadn't  spoken  of  that  agreement,"  he  added. 

At  last  the  tall  man's  compressed  lips  relaxed  in  a 
smile. 

1 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


"  You  don't  need  to  apologize,  Bob,"  he  drawled. 

"  I  just  wanted  to  be  clear,"  retorted  the  other, 
unconsciously  glad  that  his  companion's  customary 
good  humor  had  returned.  "  It's  tough,  just  now, 
with  the  old  man  under  the  weather,  and  all." 

The  tall  man's  eyes  narrowed  in  steady  scrutiny. 

"  Who  said  he  was  under  the  weather?  "  he  asked 
after  a  moment. 

"  Oh,  I  know  a  good  many  things  that  aren't  in 
the  papers."  It  was  said  smartly. 

The  smile  appeared  again,  and  the  broad  shoulders 
shrugged  expressively. 

"  Well,  where'll  I  see  you  next,  Bob?  " 

"  Next?    Why,  I'll  be  here  to-morrow." 

"I  know;  but  I  shan't." 

"  But  you  said " 

"  I've  changed  my  mind ;  a  privilege  I  always  give 
myself.  Healthy  thing  to  do,  too,"  he  continued,  with 
a  low  chuckle.  "  Gives  it  variety,  you  know.  I've 
always  figured  that  you  fellows,  who  make  up  your 
mind  and  stick  to  it  like  grim  death,  lose  a  whole  lot 
of  the  fun  of  life." 

"But  where  are  you  going?"  asked  the  other, 
rather  anxiously,  as  the  tall  man  started  to  turn 
away. 

"  Want  to  increase  that  fund  of  information,  eh, 
Bob?  Well,  I'll  tell  you."  He  lowered  his  voice, 


A    BELATED    WARNING 


and,  with  a  grotesque  air  of  mystery,  added :  "  Now 
this  is  confidential.  I'm  going  over  to  the  desk 
yonder  and  get  a  sheet  of  paper.  Then  I'm  going 
to  write  a  letter,  and,  after  that — I'm  not  quite  sure, 
and  I  guess  I  won't  tell  you  about  it,  because  I  might 
change  my  mind  again."  The  merry  chuckle  broke 
in.  "  Well,  good-by,  Bob.  Good  luck  to  you,  and, 
Bob  " — he  put  out  his  hand — "  thanks,  hearty." 

The  other  man,  whose  name  was  Kelsey,  watched 
the  tall  figure  lounge  across  to  the  desk,  and  heard 
the  clerk's  loud  guffaw  at  some  indistinguishable  re- 
mark. Then  he  turned  and  strolled  out,  smiling  by 
contagion,  entirely  satisfied. 

Left  to  himself,  the  tall  man  sprawled  comfortably 
in  one  of  the  rickety  chairs  in  the  sordid  little  hotel's 
front  window,  and  taking  a  fountain  pen  from  his 
pocket  he  wrote  meditatively,  his  paper  resting  upon 
an  old  magazine  which  he  had  filched  from  the  desk. 
As  he  wrote,  the  whimsical  smile  at  his  mouth  broad- 
ened into  a  grin,  and  when  at  last  he  folded  the 
paper  and  addressed  the  envelope,  the  grin  persisted 
as  he  sat,  the  finished  letter  in  his  hand,  gazing  across 
at  the  shambling  wooden  block  which,  from  the  other 
side  of  the  street,  faced  the  hotel. 

Slowly  the  twinkling  eyes  grew  narrower,  and 
their  look  wistful  with  a  kind  of  childlike  sadness  as 
he  peered,  unseeing,  into  the  twilight.  His  mouth 

3 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


settled  into  a  firm  line,  not  hard,  but  with  a  solid 
determination,  in  marked  contrast  to  its  former 
geniality;  in  contrast,  indeed,  with  the  long,  loung- 
ing body  and  with  the  lazy,  good-humored  aspect  of 
the  man. 

He  was  not  what  would  be  considered,  conven- 
tionally, good  looking.  In  the  first  place,  he  was  too 
tall,  and,  although  no  one  would  have  called  him 
ungainly,  his  long  arms  and  legs  had  only  the  grace 
which  strong  muscles  and  sinewy  vigor  give  to  a  man. 
Even  that  strength  of  body  was  hidden  now,  as  it 
was  often,  in  his  slow,  leisurely  movements,  and  in 
the  utter  good-nature  which  his  whole  personality 
suffused.  He  had  a  heavy,  strong  jaw,  but  its  effect 
was  softened  by  the  whimsical  smile  which  showed, 
under  his  lips,  his  white  but  slightly  irregular  teeth. 
His  nose  might  have  been  called  Roman  in  shape, 
with  curving,  sensitive  nostrils,  and  his  eyes,  some- 
times wide  and  childlike  as  now,  and  sometimes  nar- 
rowed and  shrewd,  were  gray  blue,  the  color  of  the 
sky  on  a  warm  summer's  day.  Above,  a  broad, 
square  brow  was  closely  edged  with  curly-tight, 
brown-black  hair,  which  seemed  a  persistence  of 
youth ;  and,  in  this,  it  fitted  well  with  the  face,  which 
was  essentially  boyish  to  those  who  made  no  note  of 
the  subtle  lines  of  experience  about  the  eyes,  and  the 
wrinkles  which  more  than  a  few  years  of  smiles  had 

4 


A    BELATED    WAKNING 


made  permanent  at  the  corners  of  his  mouth.  The 
casual  observer  would  have  said  that  he  was  perhaps 
twenty-six,  not  more ;  which  showed  that  he  had  saved 
five  or  six  years  in  outward  appearance  at  least. 
The  fact  was,  he  was  approaching  thirty-two. 

He  wore  loose,  easy-fitting  clothes,  and  yet  there 
was  an  indefinable  sense  of  refinement  about  him, 
even  as  there  had  been  in  his  speech  as  he  had  stood 
talking  with  Kelsey  in  the  middle  of  the  rough  lobby 
of  the  Log  Run  hotel.  One  might  have  imagined 
him  as  wholly  at  his  ease  in  a  gay  drawing-room,  and 
yet  he  did  not  seem  out  of  place  here,  sitting  in  the 
rickety  chair  in  the  little  hotel's  front  window.  He 
had,  perhaps,  something  of  that  universal  quality, 
that  capacity  of  meeting  and  conquering  his  sur- 
roundings, which  makes  the  true  man  of  the  world. 

At  last  he  rose  and  stretched  up  his  long  arms, 
yawning.  Turning  slowly  as  he  did  so,  he  caught 
a  glimpse  of  the  antique  clock  behind  the  desk,  and 
his  long  body  was  galvanized  at  once  into  action. 
He  was  late,  as  usual.  He  crossed  the  room,  bought 
a  stamp,  obtained  his  small  leather  traveling  bag, 
and  with  a  jesting  good-by  to  the  clerk,  he  passed 
out  and  into  the  darkening  street.  Outside,  he 
quickened  his  pace,  and  turning  to  his  left,  he  con- 
tinued down  a  long,  narrow  alley,  at  the  bottom  of 
which  he  came  out  into  the  narrow  valley,  littered 

5 


THE    YAEDSTICK   MAN 


with  tracks  and  idle  cars.  The  little  mining  town 
hung  above,  upon  the  side  hill,  looking  down  at  the 
station  with  the  curious  interest  of  those  to  whom 
it  was  the  only  link  with  the  outer  world.  The 
station  building  was,  perhaps,  an  ordinary  five-min- 
ute walk  away,  but  in  about  half  that  time  his  long 
strides  brought  him  to  the  platform,  where  already 
the  branch  train  which  would  clatter  south  to  the 
main  line  stood,  made  up,  its  engine  puffing  spas- 
modically, as  if  eager  to  be  off  upon  its  last  trip 
of  the  day. 

The  young  fellow  in  the  telegraph  office,  who  was 
station  master,  operator,  janitor,  and  caretaker  all 
in  one  at  the  little  station,  jumped  up  as  the  tall 
man  pushed  open  the  door  and  came  in  under  the 
dingy  light  of  the  oil  lamps. 

"  Hello,"  drawled  his  visitor.  "  There's  a  bunch 
of  baggage  out  there  that  ought  to  be  looked  after — 
isn't  there?" 

"  Sure."  The  boy  grinned  at  the  irresistible  wink 
which  had  accompanied  the  words.  The  key  was 
already  sounding  when  he  shut  the  door  carefully 
behind  him. 

At  the  junction,  an  hour  or  more  later,  the  tall 
man  watched,  with  a  homesick  feeling,  the  west- 
bound express  pull  out.  He  was  going  East;  East, 
for  the  first  time  in  a  dozen  years.  The  vanishing 

6 


A    BELATED    WARNING 


tail  lights  of  the  train  seemed  to  beckon  him.  He 
felt  like  a  deserter  instead  of  like  a  man  who,  having 
burned  his  bridges  behind  him,  was  about  to  lead  a 
forlorn  hope.  How  forlorn  it  was,  he  realized  dur- 
ing the  first  stages  of  the  eastward  journey.  Even 
while  he  joked  with  a  couple  of  salesmen  in  the 
smoking  compartment,  the  sense  of  impending 
calamity — not  for  himself — was  upon  him. 

Shortly  before  midnight  the  train  jogged  from 
one  line  of  rails  to  another,  and  stopped.  There  was 
a  five-minute  wait  here,  and  he  slipped  out  and  to  the 
platform.  Behind,  glistening  in  the  moonlight,  the 
trail  of  the  Pacific  &  Eastern  climbed  straight  into 
the  hills.  Ahead  the  L.  &  B.  curved  eastward. 
Standing  there,  he  knew  in  a  flash  of  vision  what  it 
all  would  mean.  Wrath  tightened  his  muscles  and 
cleared  away  his  last  regret.  When  he  swung 
aboard  the  train  once  more  he  was  smiling  grimly, 
a  new  kind  of  a  smile  for  him. 

At  Chicago  he  found  a  telegram  awaiting  him,  and 
he  sent  another  in  reply.  There  was  a  six-hour 
break  in  connections,  and  when  the  Limited  drew  out 
for  New  York,  its  baggage  car  held  a  new  trunk, 
packed  with  hastily  fitted  new  clothes.  The  check 
was  in  the  tall  man's  pocket. 


CHAPTER    II 

MR.   JONES   CONSIDERS 

T  I  ^HE  offices  of  Sheldon  &  Jones,  bankers  and 
JL  brokers,  were  on  the  sixth  floor  of  the  Tontine 
Building.  They  were  the  customary  series  of  rooms, 
beginning  with  the  large  business  office,  inhabited  by 
a  dozen  clerks  and  boys  behind  wire  partitions ;  next 
to  that  the  customers'  room,  mahogany  finished,  and 
edged  by  telephone  booths  and  the  big  quotation 
board,  with  the  ticker  in  the  corner  clicking  busily 
from  ten  to  three  on  the  days  when  Exchange  was 
open ;  and  finally,  the  private  room  of  the  partners, 
with  large  windows  which  looked  down  upon  the  seeth- 
ing corner  of  Wall  and  Broad  streets. 

On  the  day  after  the  Limited  pulled  out  of  Chi- 
cago, bearing  the  tall  man  and  his  hastily  acquired 
wardrobe,  Mr.  Jones,  the  junior  partner  of  the  con- 
cern, stood,  his  hands  clasped  behind  him,  staring  out 
of  these  windows  facing  the  corner.  It  had  been  a 
quiet  day  in  the  Street,  and  now  the  Exchange  was 
about  to  close.  The  ticker  behind  him  retailed  its 
uninteresting  news  dully,  spasmodically,  as  if  bored 
and  disgusted  by  the  eventlessness  of  things. 

8 


MR.    JONES    CONSIDERS 


Mr.  Jones  had  been  standing  there  now  for  up- 
wards of  ten  minutes.  This  was  extraordinary. 
Any  one  of  his  clerks  in  the  outer  office,  had 
they  seen  it,  would  have  shaken  their  heads  and 
declared  that  something  must  be  wrong.  Jones, 
to  them,  was  a  restless,  resistless  drive-wheel, 
whose  revolutions  were,  relentlessly,  so  many  per 
minute  all  day  long.  When  he  arrived,  things  be- 
gan to  move.  As  soon  as  he  left,  the  belts  were  off 
the  machinery  at  once,  and  activity  sagged  to  a 
quick  close. 

The  ticker  gave  a  few  last  sleepy  clicks,  and  the 
little  clock  on  Mr.  Jones's  desk  chimed  three,  melo- 
diously. Instantly  he  spun  about  and  paced  with 
short,  jerky  steps  to  the  ticker.  There  he  ran  the 
tape  rapidly  through  his  fingers,  until  he  found  the 
quotation  he  desired. 

"  P.  &  E.  851/1,"  it  read. 

Mr.  Jones  blew  out  his  fat  cheeks  with  an  expulsive 
breath,  and  nodded  wisely. 

"  Hm,  hm,"  he  said. 

He  dropped  the  tape  and,  his  shoulders  squared, 
marched  into  the  customers'  room,  which  was  prac- 
tically empty  now,  and  on  into  the  accounting 
room.  There,  without  a  word,  he  took  a  big  ledger 
from  under  the  nose  of  one  of  his  clerks,  and,  having 
slapped  its  pages  vigorously  to  the  place  he  wished, 
2  9 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


he  studied  certain  entries  with  nervous  eagerness. 
This,  too,  was  rather  extraordinary,  both  action  and 
manner. 

"  Hm,  hm,"  he  said  again,  and,  silently,  his  pre- 
occupied eyes  upon  the  floor,  he  tramped  back  to  his 
private  office.  With  businesslike  precision  he  settled 
himself  before  his  desk,  and  began  to  put  down  figures 
rapidly  upon  a  pad,  which  he  extracted  from  one  of 
the  cubby-holes. 

His  desk,  it  may  be  said,  was  a  model  of  neatness. 
Its  long  mahogany  top  bore  nothing  but  the  shapely 
gold  clock,  which  had  chimed  the  close  of  business. 
A  spotless  green  blotter  covered  most  of  the  working 
space,  and  at  its  inner  left-hand  corner,  in  an  oval 
gold  frame,  was  a  woman's  picture.  No  one  who 
had  caught  even  a  glimpse  of  the  desk  and  of  the  man 
before  it,  would  have  doubted  for  a  moment  that  this 
was  Mrs.  Jones.  An  attractive  face  it  was,  too. 
The  mouth,  perhaps,  was  a  trifle  large  and  pleasure- 
loving,  but  the  eyes  were  large,  too,  and  bright,  and 
the  general  effect  of  the  face  was  of  round  prettiness. 
Perhaps  the  most  striking  thing  about  the  picture 
was  the  heavy  necklace  which  hung  about  the  bare 
neck,  a  bizarre,  oriental  decoration,  effective  even  in 
its  miniature  semblance.  The  other  appointments  of 
the  desk  were  faultless,  from  the  brass  inkstand  to 
the  blotting  pad's  brass  corners,  which  matched ;  and 

10 


ME.   JONES    CONSIDEES 


to  the  wire  letter  basket,  which  now  at  the  close  of 
day,  as  was  proper,  was  empty. 

The  bell  of  the  desk  telephone,  which  stood  at  the 
left,  rang  briskly,  and  Jones  stopped  his  figuring  to 
answer  the  call.  He  listened  for  nearly  a  minute, 
motionless.  Then,  with  expressionless  curtness,  he 
said: 

"  Very  well.  I'll  take  it  up  as  soon  as  I  can. 
Busy  just  now.  Good-by." 

He  smashed  the  receiver  upon  its  hook,  and  re- 
turned to  his  figuring. 

Busy!  Yes,  that  was  the  epitome  of  Jones.  It 
was  in  his  square,  solid  shoulders ;  in  every  movement 
of  his  short,  stocky  body.  It  was  in  his  conventional, 
good-looking  face,  too,  with  its  brow  marked  already 
with  the  lines  of  much  planning ;  in  the  restless,  sharp 
brown  eyes ;  in  the  decisive,  grim  set  of  his  mouth, 
half  hidden  under  closely  cropped  mustaches. 

He  had  been  busy  to  a  purpose,  too.  He  was  slill 
young.  Although  he  looked  close  to  forty,  he  was 
not  yet  thirty-five ;  only  a  dozen  years  out  of  college, 
but  in  those  dozen  years  he  had  "  done  things." 
Starting  with  practically  nothing,  he  had  worked 
upward  steadily.  What  he  was,  was  self-made.  The 
firm  of  Sheldon  &  Jones  was  less  than  half  a  dozen 
years  old,  and  yet  it  was  widely  known,  respected, 
and,  best  of  all,  prosperous. 

11 


THE    YARDSTICK    MAN 


He  was  solid,  people  said,  dependable,  wholly 
trustworthy.  His  business  life  was  well  ordered  and 
eminently  respectable.  His  association  with  church 
and  charities  had  brought  him  some  prominence, 
which  had  not  been  harmful.  The  growing  clientele 
of  the  firm  believed  in  him.  The  old  Wall  Street 
dictum,  that  every  broker's  customers  change  com- 
pletely every  four  years  had  not  been  true  of  Shel- 
don &  Jones.  The  men  who  once  came  stayed,  for 
the  most  part,  and  the  firm  thrived  on  their  business. 

Jones  was  a  tradesman  in  stocks  and  bonds.  The 
big  speculative  movements  of  the  Street  interested 
him,  at  times  enticed  him.  He  knew  some  of  the 
successful  operators,  knew  their  methods,  and  knew 
their  successes.  Sometimes,  in  his  depressed  mo- 
ments, his  own  steadily  growing  prosperity  seemed 
pitifully  small  in  the  face  of  the  swift,  huge  profits 
which  others  about  him  gathered  in  easily,  while  he 
watched.  But  he  always  watched.  He  never  took 
part  in  the  game.  It  was  too  unsafe;  and  although 
it  had  tempted  him  often  he  never  had  yielded,  never 
up  to  now. 

A  clerk  appeared  with  some  papers,  and  disap- 
peared more  swiftly  than  he  came. 

"  Later,"  growled  Jones,  without  looking  up. 
"  I'm  busy." 

This  again  was  extraordinary;  in  the  first  place, 


MR.   JONES    CONSIDERS 


because  Jones  was  not  accustomed  to  be  too  busy  for 
the  details  of  his  office.  More  than  that,  at  the 
moment  he  was  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  staring 
vacantly  at  the  picture  in  the  oval  frame. 

Sheldon  came  in  shortly,  a  large,  broad-shouldered, 
big-featured,  hearty  man  who  settled  in  his  chair  with 
a  stretch  and  a  yawn,  and  then  plowed,  with  rough 
vigor,  into  the  papers  that  littered  his  desk.  His 
partner's  silence  and  absorption  at  last  made  an  im- 
pression upon  him,  and,  swinging  around,  he  peered 
at  Jones  inquiringly. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  you,  Jones  ?  "  he  de- 
manded in  a  gruff,  but  not  unpleasant  voice. 

Jones  started  guiltily.  The  truth  of  the  matter 
was  that  he  had  scarcely  realized  Sheldon's  entrance. 

"  Nothing,"  he  said,  testy  at  being  interrupted. 
"  Nothing  at  all,"  he  added  impressively,  as  he  arose, 
his  mind  returning  to  its  usual  channels,  and  tramp- 
ing out  into  the  outer  office,  he  took  up  the  postponed 
matter  with  the  clerk. 

Sheldon  looked  after  him,  yawned  again,  and  re- 
turned to  his  pawing  over  the  unimportant  papers 
before  him.  Nothing  ever  worried  or  bothered  Shel- 
don for  long.  Shortly  he  closed  down  his  desk,  threw 
on  his  light  coat,  and  made  ready  to  go.  Those 
letters  could  wait  until  morning.  It  was  always  easy 
for  Sheldon  to  put  things  off. 

13 


THE    YAEDSTICK   MAN 


Halfway  to  the  door,  however,  he  stopped.  The 
telephone  on  Jones's  desk  rang  briskly,  and  Sheldon, 
deflecting  his  course,  called  Jones's  name  at  the 
entrance  into  the  empty  outer  office.  Then  he  stood 
by  with  idle  curiosity,  twirling  his  cane,  as  Jones 
came  hurrying  back,  and  answered. 

"Oh,  yes,  Miss  Mabel.  Who's  there?  Is  he? 
Hm.  Too  bad.  I  shan't  be  home  to  dinner.  Very 
important  engagement.  Tell  Mrs.  Jones  I'll  be  in 
as  early  as  I  can.  Yes,  that's  right.  Good-by." 

He  crowded  the  receiver  back  on  the  hock  and 
turned,  his  brows  creased  with  care,  to  Sheldon,  who 
still  stood  waiting. 

"  Just  my  luck,"  he  growled  irritably. 

"What's  up?"  asked  Sheldon. 

"  Oh,  it's  Trowbridge,"  snarled  Jones.  "  Why  in 
thunder  he  should  come  just  now  is  more  than  I  can 
see." 

"Who's  Trowbridge?" 

"  Oh,  Professor  Trowbridge — Credmore — my  old 
college.  They  made  me  a  trustee  last  year,  you 
know.  He's  come  down  on  a  hunt  for  funds.  He 
wrote  me  he  was  coming,  but  I  didn't  realize  it  was 
this  week.  Where  are  you  going  to  be  to-night  ?  " 
Jones  added  with  sudden  new  interest. 

"  Why,  nowhere  in  particular,"  said  Sheldon. 
"  Either  home  or  the  club  will  reach  me.  Why  ?  " 

14 


MR.    JONES    CONSIDERS 


"  Oh,  nothing  " — with  assumed  carelessness — "  I 
may  want  to  get  hold  of  you,  that's  all." 

Sheldon  eyed  him  curiously. 

"  Nothing  you  want  to  take  up  with  me  now  ?  "  he 
asked. 

"  No,  I  guess  not." 

"  Well,  try  the  house  first.     So  long." 

Sometime  later,  Jones  too  left  the  office.  It  was 
his  custom  to  be  the  last  to  go,  and  to-night  he  de- 
layed longer  than  usual.  It  was  growing  dusk  when 
he  came  out  of  the  broad,  empty  corridor  below. 
The  cab  he  had  telephoned  for  was  waiting,  and, 
giving  the  driver  the  address,  he  jumped  in. 

They  bowled  uptown  by  the  clear,  roundabout 
route  which  every  experienced  cabman  in  lower  New 
York  knows ;  coming  out  in  Washington  Square ; 
then  on  along  the  smooth,  broad  avenue,  almost 
empty  of  traffic  now,  at  nightfall.  Up  in  the  fifties 
they  stopped  before  a  huge,  ornate  pile  of  stone,  and 
Jones,  alighting,  doubled  his  customary  tip.  Stop- 
ping here  bespoke  a  different  condition  than  stopping 
before  his  own  comfortable  house  on  Seventy-second 
Street,  which  was  a  mere  cottage  compared  with  this 
mansion,  and  it  was  fitting  that  a  recognition  of  this 
difference  should  appear  in  the  tip.  Jones  seldom 
failed  to  do  the  fitting  thing. 

He  hesitated  a  moment  at  the  foot  of  the  long 
15 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


flight  of  stone  stairs.  Pride  was  in  his  heart;  yes, 
and  a  hope  which  fascinated  him.  It  was  the  home, 
or  at  least  the  abiding  place,  of  John  P.  Carnahan, 
the  railroad  man  and  financier,  and  he,  Edward  C. 
Jones,  was  to  dine  with  the  great  man  that  night. 


CHAPTER    III 

A   LETTER    AND   THE    PROPRIETIES 

THE  library  of  Mr.  Jones's  house  was  on  the  sec- 
ond floor  and  faced  the  street.  It  was  one  of 
those  long,  rectangular  rooms  which  are  the  despair  of 
the  home  maker.  Mrs.  Jones  had  done  excellently  well 
with  it,  however.  Indeed,  she  was  very  proud  of  it. 
It  was,  in  truth,  the  coziest,  most  homelike  room  in 
that  conventional,  brownstone-fronted,  twenty-foot, 
four-storied  house. 

To  begin  with,  there  were  books,  a  thousand  of 
them,  and  more.  After  all,  there  is  nothing  which 
furnishes  a  room  better  than  books.  Jones  had  had 
a  good  many  to  start  with,  and  he  had  bought  more ; 
sets,  from  subscription  agents  and  in  the  auction 
rooms,  of  the  good  old  standard  authors,  and  all  in 
attractive  bindings.  The  binding  is,  of  course,  im- 
portant when  decoration  is  at  least  part  of  the  object 
of  purchase.  Then  there  was  quite  a  colony  of 
modern  novels  which  Mrs.  Jones  had  picked  up  from 
time  to  time,  on  the  advice  of  the  clerk  at  Galano's. 
The  books  were  incased  in  a  long  line  of  Circassian 
walnut  shelves  with  heavy  glass  doors.  Indeed,  Mrs. 

17 


THE    YARDSTICK    MAN 


Jones's  show  of  china  closets  in  her  dining  room  was 
not  their  equal. 

Above  the  bookcases,  the  short  wall  space  left  was 
burlapped — a  bronze  color — and  was  hung  with  a- 
multitude  of  small  pictures  in  groups.  One  stretch 
of  wall,  for  example,  had  foreign  cathedral  pictures, 
which  always  give  a  sense  of  good  taste,  it  is  said. 
Another  stretch  was  garnished  with  black  and  white 
drawings ;  "  originals,"  Mrs.  Jones  proclaimed 
proudly,  which  she  had  picked  up  at  an  auction. 
And  in  one  corner  near  the  fireplace  there  were 
framed  mementoes,  such  as  autograph  letters  written 
by  men  of  renown,  a  copy  of  a  death  mask  or  two  of 
famous  authors,  and  other  similar  decorations.  In- 
deed everything,  from  the  Japanese  prints  over  the 
mantel  to  the  wrought-iron  fixtures  for  the  electric 
lights,  was,  to  say  the  least,  effective. 

A  wide,  luxurious  Oriental  rug  was  under  foot; 
the  tapestry  chairs  and  couch  were  not  only  hand- 
some, but  comfortable;  and  the  big  Circassian  walnut 
table  in  the  center,  with  its  books  and  magazines  and 
heavy  brass  electrolier,  modified  the  room's  length 
and,  incidentally,  matched  the  bookcases.  The  shal- 
low alcove,  which  cut  one  long  wall  in  half,  with  its 
table  desk  and  droplight,  and  its  easy,  leather-cov- 
ered chairs,  gave  a  sense  of  activity  and  usablencss, 
to  which  the  little  telephone  desk  between  the  windows 

18 


A    LETTER    AND    THE    PROPRIETIES 

in  the  main  room  added.  After  all,  activity  is  neces- 
sary to  a  room.  The  showiest  reception  room  be- 
comes half  homelike  if  the  chairs  are  disarranged. 

The  evening  was  waning,  and  Professor  Trow- 
bridge,  known  among  the  boys  of  Credmore  for  a 
score  of  years  as  "  the  Dictator,"  was  nodding  sleep- 
ily over  a  book,  beside  the  table.  Late  hours  were 
not  a  part  of  the  professor's  routine.  Up  at  Cred- 
more everybody  was  in  bed  by  ten  o'clock  or  soon 
afterwards,  and  he  felt  the  drowsiness  of  the  ap- 
proaching hour.  A  sharper  nod  than  usual  brought 
him  to  himself,  and  he  looked  up  sheepishly.  Then 
he  glanced  at  his  watch,  and  started  to  his  feet  as 
briskly  as  his  rheumatic  legs  would  allow. 

He  was  a  tall,  angular  man ;  a  man  of  sharp 
corners.  His  face  accentuated  the  notion.  Even 
under  the  heavy  dark  beard,  turning  gray,  the  sharp 
line  of  his  profile  protruded.  His  nose  was  long  and 
pointed,  and  his  eyebrows  bristled  over  small  dark 
eyes,  which  were  cutting,  even  now,  as  he  stubbornly 
winked  the  sleepiness  out  of  them. 

"  Miss  Mabel,"  he  began,  in  a  sharp,  rather  high- 
pitched  voice,  evidently  accustomed  to  command, 
"  may  I  ask  if  it  is — um — a  habit  of  Mr.  Jones  to  be 
so  late  in  reaching  home?  " 

The  girl  whom  he  addressed  glanced  up  quickly. 
She  was  nestled  in  a  big  armchair  in  the  alcove,  read- 

19 


THE    YARDSTICK    MAN 


ing  by  the  droplight,  a  slender,  eerie  little  figure  in 
clinging  light  blue,  with  the  gentle,  wide  blue  eyes  of 
a  child. 

"  Oh,  no,  professor.     It's  very  unusual." 

The  musical  cadences  of  her  clear,  reedy  voice  were 
like  the  cool  trickling  of  a  summer  brook;  but  the 
professor  had  little  interest  in  voices,  except  his  own. 
He  eyed  her  speculatively  over  his  glasses  for  an 
impressive  moment. 

"  Of  course  he  is  a  very  busy  man,"  he  remarked, 
"  but  are  you  sure  he  understands  that  I  am  here?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  the  girl.  "  I  'phoned  him  before 
dinner." 

He  permitted  another  pregnant  pause,  pursing  his 
thin  lips  meanwhile. 

"  Strange,"  he  said.  He  took  out  his  watch  once 
more  and  snapped  its  old-fashioned  case  for  emphasis. 

"  I  regret,"  he  said,  with  a  disapproving  sigh, 
"  that  I  cannot  wait  up  for  him.  Ten  o'clock  is  my 
invariable  hour  for  retiring.  Where  is — um — Mrs. 
Jones?" 

The  girl  put  down  her  book  with  evident  regret 
and  rose  lightly  to  her  feet.  She  was  taller  than  the 
big  chair  would  have  led  one  to  think,  but  she  moved 
with  a  supple  grace  which  added  to  the  almost  fairy- 
like  look  of  her. 

"  I'll  try  to  find  her,  sir,"  she  said,  as  she  came 
20 


A   LETTER   AND   THE   PROPRIETIES 

out  into  the  main  room  and  started  toward  the  door. 
After  a  few  steps  she  paused. 

"  Oh,"  she  said  with  a  smile  of  relief ;  "  she's  com- 
ing now."  She  turned  swiftly  back  to  where  the 
open  book  in  the  alcove  beckoned  her,  as  Mrs.  Jones 
came  rustling  in. 

Mrs.  Jones  was  evidently  excited.  Two  dots  of 
hectic  red  showed  in  her  round  cheeks,  and  her  first 
words  were  breathless,  as  if  she  had  hurried  upstairs. 

"  Of  all  the  surprising  things ! "  she  began,  her 
voice  a  trifle  sharp  as  from  over-use,  but  not  un- 
pleasant. "  See  what  I  found  among  Edward's 
letters." 

As  she  spoke  she  held  up  to  the  professor's  view  a 
slit  envelope  and  the  sheet  of  paper  which  evidently 
went  with  it.  In  her  other  hand,  at  her  side,  were 
a  number  of  unopened  letters,  which  helped  to  ex- 
plain her  remark. 

"  Of  course,"  she  went  on,  always  beforehand  in 
explanation,  "  I  shouldn't  have  opened  it  if  he  hadn't 
been  so  late.  Mabel,  my  dear,  put  these  on  the  tel- 
ephone desk.  He  is  so  particular  about  having  his 
mail  orderly." 

The  girl,  with  an  unnoticed  sigh,  put  down  the 
book  once  more,  and,  taking  the  bundle  of  letters 
from  Mrs.  Jones's  outstretched  hand,  carried  out  her 
bidding. 

21 


THE   YARDSTICK   MAN 


"  My  dear  Dorothy,"  began  the  professor  at  once, 
clearing  his  throat  with  some  embarrassment,  "  it 
is  my  rule  to " 

But  Mrs.  Jones  broke  in  upon  him. 

"  Now,  please  sit  down,  professor,"  she  urged. 
"  You  don't  need  to  be  formal  in  this  house,  and  then 
I  always  hate  to  have  old  gentlemen  rise  when  I  come 
into  the  room."  She  stopped,  aghast  for  a  second 
at  the  error  into  which  her  active  brain  and  facile 
tongue  had  led  her ;  but  only  for  a  second.  "  Not 
that  you're  old,  professor,"  she  ran  on,  with  swift 
assurance.  "  It  sounded  as  if  I  meant  that,  but  I 
didn't  at  all.  Now  do  sit  down.  I  want  to  read 
you  this  letter.  I  don't  know  when  I  have  been  so 
excited." 

There  was  no  gainsaying  her.  The  professor 
helplessly  stammered  an  objecting  word  or  two,  and 
then,  giving  in,  sank  back  in  his  chair,  glancing  at 
his  watch  with  a  sigh. 

Mrs.  Jones  had  unfolded  the  paper  in  her  hand. 

"  It's  dated  at  Log  Run,  Wisconsin,"  she  began. 
"  Mabel,  dear,"  she  ordered,  "  will  you  please  look 
up  Log  Run,  Wisconsin — and,"  she  ran  on  rapidly, 
her  sentences  dovetailing  so  that  there  was  no  chance 
of  interruption,  "  it's  written  in  a  hurry,  on  an  old 
scrap  of  paper ;  just  like  Roger,"  she  added,  half  to 
herself. 


A   LETTER    AND    THE    PROPRIETIES 

"  Roger ! "  repeated  the  professor,  suddenly 
alert. 

"  There !  "  said  Mrs.  Jones,  her  mouth  wrinkling 
complaint  at  herself,  "  I've  let  the  cat  out  of  the 
bag.  Now  listen." 

And  this  is  what  she  read: 

"  DEAR  TURTLE  : 

"  The  prodigal  is  returning  to  the  effete  and 
hypocritical  East.  Prepare  the  fatted  calf.  I  shall 
arrive  at  your  door,  bag  and  baggage,  probably  on 
the  same  day  you  read  this  letter. 

"  I  gather  that  you  are  prosperous.  Fine !  It  is 
well  to  have  prosperous  friends. 

"  Are  you  as  good  as  ever?  I  have  been  told  that 
goodness  and  prosperity  seldom  occur  at  once  to  any 
man.  Witness  my  own  case. 

"  However,  my  love  to  Dot,  and  to  you,  my  dig- 
nified respects. 

"  Hastily, 

"  ROGER  MATHEWSON." 

Mrs.  Jones,  who  had  flushed  slightly  as  she  hur- 
ried over  the  last  sentences  of  the  letter,  looked  up 
now  almost  breathlessly,  her  eyes  shining. 

"  Now  what  have  you  to  say  to  that?  "  she  de- 
manded. 

23 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


The  professor,  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  glowered 
at  her  with  an  expression  of  unfeigned  disgust. 

"  Mathewson !  "  he  ejaculated. 

He  had  no  time  for  more  than  the  single  word. 

"  We  haven't  heard  from  him  in  ten  years," 
rattled  on  Mrs.  Jones.  "  He  wrote  us  when  we 
were  married.  I  remember,  because  Edward  was 
angry  about  that  letter  for  months.  Isn't  it  ex- 
citing? " 

It  was  not  that  she  really  desired  an  answer,  but 
the  professor  took  advantage  of  the  slight  pause  to 
remark — two  words  this  time : 

"  Amazing  effrontery !  " 

He  wagged  his  head  with  foreboding  solemnity. 

"  Just  like  Roger,"  she  retorted  airily.  "  He 
never  does  anything  like  anybody  else.  Why — "  a 
sudden  thought  striking  her — "  he  may  be  here  to- 
night. Mabel,  dear,  will  you  go  at  once  and  see  that 
the  blue  room  is  made  ready?  " 

The  girl,  who  for  the  third  time  had  put  down  her 
book,  and  who  had  brought  from  one  of  the  shelves 
a  large  and  awkward  atlas,  looked  up  from  her 
studious  preoccupation. 

"  Before  I  find  Log  Run,  Wisconsin  ?  "  she  asked 
with  amused  hopelessness. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Jones.  "  You  can  look  that  up 
afterwards." 


A    LETTER   AND    THE    PROPRIETIES 

The  girl  obediently  left  the  atlas  and  started  for 
the  door.  Before  she  reached  it,  however,  a  new 
thought  had  come  to  Mrs.  Jones  and — 

"Mabel,"  she  called. 

"  Yes." 

"  Have  some  of  the  new  novels  taken  up  to  his 
room.  He  used  to  like  to  sit  up  and  read  novels 
until  all  hours." 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Jones."     The  girl  vanished  hastily. 

Mrs.  Jones,  turning,  met  the  professor's  severe, 
questioning  look. 

"  You  cannot  mean  to  tell  me,  Dorothy,"  he  began, 
his  bony  fingers  meeting  at  the  tips  in  that  gesture 
which  every  boy  of  Credmore  knew  signified  danger, 
"  that  you  will  have  him  stay  here  ?  " 

"  Why,  of  course." 

The  professor  leaned  forward,  and  articulated  each 
word  with  cutting  emphasis. 

"  That  lazy,  impudent,  ne'er-do-well  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Jones,  dropping  upon  the  couch 
and  poising  herself  for  argument,  "  you're  hard  on 
Roger." 

The  professor  raised  his  dictatorial  first  finger 
and  pointed  it  at  her  accusingly. 

"  Your  husband,"  he  declared,  "  would  be  out- 
raged." 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  Mrs.  Jones,  carelessly  shrug- 
3  25 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


ging  her  shoulders.  "  Roger  always  made  him 
furious." 

The  professor  frowned  ominously.  His  right 
hand  was  still  extended  in  that  perennial  gesture. 

"  He  made  every  serious-minded  man  furious,"  he 
said  oratorically.  "  No  boy,  Dorothy,  in  forty 
years  of  Credmore — um — has  been  so  hateful  to  me. 
His  presence  here  would,  I  may  frankly  say,  make 
my  visit  well-nigh  unbearable." 

This  was  unanswerable. 

"  Perhaps  he  is  changed,"  she  suggested. 

The  professor  drew  himself  up  with  ever-ready 
authority. 

"  '  The  child  is  father  to  the  man,' "  he  quoted. 
It  was  peculiarly  his  philosophy.  "  And  then, 
Dorothy,"  he  continued,  "  most  important  of  all,  you 
must  consider  the  proprieties." 

Mrs.  Jones's  pretty  brow  creased  with  a  puzzled 
frown. 

"  The  proprieties?  "  she  inquired. 

The  professor  was  looking  at  her  so  steadily 
that  she  became  confused,  and  glanced  away,  pout- 
ing both  at  his  surveillance  and  at  her  own  con- 
fusion. This  seemed  to  satisfy  him,  for  he  nodded 
gravely. 

"  I  am  not  in  the — um — habit  of  meddling  with 
other  people's  concerns,"  he  began,  a  severe,  parental 

26 


A    LETTER   AND    THE    PROPRIETIES 

kindness  in  his  voice,  "  but  you  seem  to  forget, 
Dorothy,  that  you  once — um — liked  this — this 
Mathewson,  and  that  my  word  to  your  respected 
father  put  a  stop  to  the  affair." 

"  Nonsense,"  broke  in  Mrs.  Jones.  Then  realiz- 
ing the  lese  majeste  of  such  an  exclamation  directed 
at  him,  she  went  on,  half  angry  and  half  apologetic, 
"  There  wasn't  any  affair  at  all.  I " 

This  was  as  far  as  she  was  allowed  to  go.  The 
professor  had  raised  his  hand  to  stop  her,  and  now 
his  voice  broke  in  with  the  same  aggravating,  even 
tone. 

"  The  result  is,"  he  went  on,  "  that  you  are  mar- 
ried to  an  admirable  gentleman,  a  man  of  duty  and 
of  conscience,  a  trustee  of  Credmore,  a  pillar  of  the 
church,  a  solid,  respectable,  and — um — prosperous 
citizen  of  his  country." 

"  But  I  haven't  said  a  word  against  Edward," 
she  retorted. 

"  I  say,  therefore,"  continued  the  professor,  un- 
heeding, "  as  a  friend  of  your  late  lamented  father, 
that  it  would  be  most  unfitting,  under  the  circum- 
stances— I  repeat,  under  the  circumstances — for  you 
to  harbor  this — this  Mathewson,  who  seeks  to  force 
himself  upon  your  hospitality.  So,"  he  added,  rising 
with  an  air  of  finality,  "  we  will  say  no  more  about 
it." 

27 


THE    YARDSTICK    MAN 


Mrs.  Jones,  upon  whose  face  resentment  struggled 
with  futile  appeal,  rose  also. 

"  But,  professor — "  she  began. 

"  You  have  already  made  me  late  in  retiring,"  in- 
terrupted that  worthy,  staring  disconsolately  at  his 
watch.  "  My  invariable  rule,  ten  o'clock.  I  prob- 
ably shall  not  sleep." 

"You're  not  going  to  wait  up  for  Edward?" 
asked  Mrs.  Jones,  surprise  making  her  momentarily 
forget  her  annoyance. 

He  stopped  at  her  question. 

"  No.  I  shall  interview  him  in  the  morning.  You 
will  present  my  apologies  to  him." 

He  moved  on  toward  the  door.  Halfway  he  halted 
once  more  and  faced  her. 

"  Can  you  imagine,"  he  said,  with  severe  scorn, 
"  my  coming  to  New  York  to  confer  with  this  fellow 
Mathewson  about  raising  money  to  build  up  Cred- 
more?  " 

He  paused,  and  then  smiling  his  dry,  crackling 
smile,  he  nodded  at  her  in  a  way  that  was  meant  to 
be  friendly. 

"  You  are  a  fortunate-  woman,  my  dear,"  he  said. 
"  Never  forget  that.  You  are  a  very  fortunate 
woman.  You  will  pardon  my  haste,  will  you  not?  " 
He  was  conscious  of  his  own  rectitude,  and  ignored, 
if  he  noticed  it,  the  angry  flush  on  her  cheeks.  "  But 

28 


A    LETTER   AND   THE    PROPRIETIES 

my  watch  says  nine  minutes  after  ten,  and  my  watch 
is  always  accurate.  Good  night ;  good  night,  Miss 
Mabel." 

As  he  climbed  to  his  room  he  was  nodding  thought- 
fully to  himself,  and  one  of  the  first  things  he  did, 
after  he  had  switched  on  the  lights,  was  to  stand  be- 
fore the  big  mirror,  where  he  again  nodded  at  himself 
with  grave  satisfaction.  It  had  not  been  altogether 
pleasant,  but  it  had  been  his  duty,  and  Professor 
Trowbridge  never  flinched  in  the  face  of  duty.  And 
if,  to  the  every-day  critical  mind,  it  might  seem  that 
he  had  interfered  in  a  matter  which  was  entirely  be- 
yond his  province,  it  would  be  well  to  remember  that 
Professor  Trowbridge  had,  for  forty  years,  been  in 
the  habit  of  interfering  with  everything  which  had 
to  do  with  the  minds  and  morals  of  those  with  whom 
he  came  in  contact.  Most  of  these  had  been,  of 
course,  callow  youths,  whose  minds  and  morals  de- 
manded, no  doubt,  a  very  considerable  amount  of 
oversight.  It  would  be  well  to  remember,  moreover, 
that  habit  was  a  powerful  thing  with  Professor 
Trowbridge.  Of  course  he  would  not  have  admitted 
it.  It  was  not  part  of  his  scheme  of  life  to  admit 
anything,  even  to  himself.  He  had  been  far  too 
busy  with  the  weaknesses  of  others  to  spend  time  dis- 
covering his  own.  It  would  be  well  to  remember, 
also,  that  to  him  Mrs.  Jones  was  still  young  Dorothy 

29 


THE    YAEDSTICK   MAN 


Robinson  of  Credmore  town,  whose  girlish  willfulness 
and  quick  tongue  were  at  once  her  father's  despair 
and  pride,  and  that  her  husband  was  still  the  excel- 
lently worthy  young  Jones,  who  always  had  been  one 
of  the  doctor's  few  favorites.  To  the  old-school, 
inexorable,  professorial  mind,  a  man  never  changes. 
He  is  always  the  boy  whom  they  used  to  know,  or 
whom  they  think  they  used  to  know. 

The  satisfied  wrinkle  at  the  corners  of  the  mouth, 
which  was  the  professor's  apology  for  a  smile,  disap- 
peared shortly.  He  frowned  blackly. 

"  Mathewson ! " 

He  repeated  the  name  under  his  breath  with  irri- 
tated contempt.  He  fairly  flung  his  coat  and  waist- 
coat upon  an  adjacent  chair,  and  his  fingers  pulled 
at  his  collar  so  wrathfully  that  a  sharp  ripping 
sound  followed.  He  glowered  at  the  torn  button- 
hole. It  was  to  be  expected.  Merely  the  thought 
of  that  fellow  made  trouble. 

"  Mathewson ! " 

At  the  mention  of  most  of  the  familiar  Credmore 
names  he  could  either  bow  a  satisfied  "  I-told-you-so," 
or  listen  with  raised  eyebrows  which  were  both  doubt- 
ful and  indifferent.  Not  so  at  this  one.  It  was 
anathema  to  his  ears.  For  four  years  it  seldom  had 
failed  to  raise  within  him  a  storm  of  antagonism,  and 
once  those  four  years  were  done,  he  had  hoped  he 

30 


A    LETTER   AND   THE    PROPRIETIES 

would  remain  blessedly  oblivious  of  it  for  the  rest  of 
his  life.  And  here  it  was,  threatening  him  and  his 
peace  of  mind  again.  He  was  still  grumbling  about 
it  when  he  switched  off  the  light  and  got  into  bed. 

The  noises  of  the  big  city  beat  in  upon  him  from 
outside.  Not  far  away  the  elevated  trains  rumbled 
up  and  down.  From  the  street  came  the  whirring 
of  automobiles,  and  the  honk  of  their  horns.  The 
bright  lights  from  outside  shone  in  and  danced 
among  the  shadows.  To  his  drowsy,  yet  wakeful 
mind,  accustomed  to  the  quiet  darkness  of  his  room 
at  Credmore,  it  all  seemed  a  hideous  nightmare,  and 
the  name  that  was  associated  with  it,  as  he  finally 
sank  off  to  sleep,  was  Mathewson. 


CHAPTER    IV 

OUTBURSTS 

TRADITION  at  Crcdmore  accuses  Professor 
Trowbridge  of  various  achievements  at  eaves- 
dropping. It  was,  perhaps,  just  as  well  that  he  did 
not  attempt  to  add  to  their  number,  that  night,  from 
beyond  the  library  door. 

Mrs.  Jones  plumped  herself  wrathfully  upon  a 
chair  as  soon  as  he  was  out  of  sight.  She  was  an 
exceedingly  pretty  woman,  was  Mrs.  Jones.  Per- 
haps it  was  the  cheeks,  still  fiery,  or  the  large  mouth 
with  its  childlike  willfulness,  which  helped  to  give 
the  youthful  look  to  her  face.  Her  figure  was 
comely,  if  a  trifle  stout,  and  every  line  of  it  showed 
to  advantage  in  the  becoming  gown  of  purple  velvet 
which  she  wore.  There  was,  however,  at  almost  any 
time,  an  air  of  nervous  life  about  her,  of  restless 
activity,  which  one  comes  to  expect  and  to  like  in  the 
women  of  the  city. 

"  Mabel !  "  she  commanded  at  last. 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Jones." 

"  Come  here." 


OUTBURSTS 


Mrs.  Jones's  mouth  had  drawn  itself  into  a  thin 
line.  Obediently  the  girl  came  toward  her. 

"  Sit  down." 

The  puzzled  girl  dropped  at  once  into  the  nearest 
chair,  and  instantly  came  the  outburst,  too  long 
repressed. 

"  Now  I  think  he  is  a  perfectly  horrid  person," 
sputtered  Mrs.  Jones.  "  Just  because  I  used  to  like 
Roger —  Oh,  he  makes  me  so  angry.  That  awful 
*  it's-for-your-good '  air  of  his.  And  he  never  lets 
you  get  a  word  in  edgewise.  Invariable  rule! 
That's  just  what  he  is,  a  bundle  of  invariable  rules. 
And  so's  Edward.  That's  the  reason  they  get  on 
together  so  well,  I  guess.  A  very  fortunate  woman ! 
A  man  never  tells  another  man  how  fortunate  he  is. 
He  always  tells  the  other  man's  wife  how  fortunate 
she  is.  And  I'm  sick  of  being  told  how  Edward  is 
perfection,"  she  ran  on,  utterly  careless  of  her  words. 
"  I  declare,  it  gets  to  be  exasperating  to  have  such  a 
model  husband.  If  he'd  only  make  a  mistake  and 
admit  it,  I  could  love  him  madly."  She  stopped  for 
breath. 

Almost  as  breathless  as  she,  the  girl  stared  at  her 
with  wide,  troubled  eyes. 

"  Then  you  don't  love  him  ?  "  she  said. 

Mrs.  Jones,  whose  mind  had  been  concentrated 
upon  her  woes,  looked  up  with  swift  surprise. 

33 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


"  Why,  why,  Mabel.  Of  course  I  love  him.  He's 
my  husband.  He — "  she  stopped,  scarcely  knowing 
how  to  go  on,  gazing  at  the  girl  with  a  mixture  of 
nonplused  amazement  and  reminiscent  anger. 

"  But  you  said — "  began  the  girl. 

"  Oh,  bother  what  I  said,"  broke  in  Mrs.  Jones, 
annoyed  at  herself  for  having  said  so  much,  and  at 
Mabel  for  taking  her  so  literally.  "  Besides,  Mabel, 
you're  too  romantic.  As  Edward  says,  this  is  a 
practical  world.  Edward  is  a  good  husband.  I  love 
him.  But  I  don't  love  him  madly.  People  don't 
love  madly  after  they  are  married." 

"  Oh,  don't  say  that,"  cried  the  girl,  the  hurt  in 
her  voice  now.  "  I  know  my  father  and  mother — 

Mrs.  Jones  stopped  her. 

"  Oh,  I  know,"  she  said  petulantly.  "  They  are 
different.  I  don't  know  how  they  do  it — with  no 
money  and  seven  children."  She  paused,  and  slowly 
something  of  shame  and  regret  came  into  her  look. 
She  jumped  up  and  stood  over  the  girl,  her  hand 
patting  the  slender  shoulder.  "  There,  child,"  she 
said.  "  You  keep  your  romantic  notions.  I  wish  I 
could  have  kept  mine.  Now  don't  mind  what  I  say. 
I'll  try  to  be  good." 

She  half  turned  away  as  she  finished,  and  the  girl, 
touched  by  her  gesture  and  by  the  apology  in  her 
tone,  instantly  blamed  herself. 

34 


OUTBURSTS 


"  I  didn't  mean —  "  she  began  gently. 

But  Mrs.  Jones  was  halfway  across  the  room,  her 
resolution  already  forgotten. 

"  Only  I've  got  to  talk  to  somebody  once  in  a 
while,"  she  complained,  irritation  uppermost  once 
more,  "  and  there  isn't  anybody.  I'm  all  alone." 
She  was  not  talking  to  the  girl  now.  She  was  pacing 
up  and  down,  her  defiance  growing  with  every  step. 
"  Oh,  I'm  sick  of  it.  I'm  sick  of  being  a  cog  in  his 
machine.  Why,  only  yesterday  he  went  over  the 
household  accounts,  and  shook  his  head  and  talked 
about  his  burdens.  I'm  not  extravagant,  and  even 
if  I  were  he's  making  money  enough.  Oh,  I'm  sick 
of  going  to  teas  and  suppers  and  all  the  rest — alone. 
I'm  sick  of  having  a  good  time.  I  want  some  excite- 
ment. I  want  to  do  something." 

"  What  do  you  want  to  do  ? "  asked  the  girl 
quietly  after  a  moment. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  How  should  I  know?  Only, 
if  something  doesn't  happen  pretty  soon,- 1  shall  do 
something  desperate." 

Mabel  Wright  waited  another  half  minute.  Then 
she  rose  slowly  and  turned  away.  On  the  table  were 
the  books  she  had  selected,  and  now  she  began  piling 
them  in  her  arms  to  take  upstairs. 

Mrs.  Jones,  turning  in  her  restless  walking,  saw 
the  movement  and  halted. 

35 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


"  Mabel." 

"  Yes." 

"You  look  like  a  solemn  little  judge  just  going 
to  say  guilty." 

"  I'm  sorry,"  said  the  girl  simply.  "  Really,  I'm 
sorry.  I  just  don't  understand.  And  I — you'll  for- 
give me,  won't  you? — I  don't  want  to  understand." 

"  No  one  understands  me,"  retorted  Mrs.  Jones 
bitterly.  "  I — I  don't  understand  myself."  It  was 
the  last  flare  of  her  irritation,  however.  She  wiped 
away  the  nervous,  self-pitying  tears  which  had 
rushed  into  her  eyes,  and  impulsively  put  her  arm 
about  the  girl's  waist. 

"  There,  there.  Forgive  me,  Mabel,"  she  said, 
with  that  ready  confession  and  tenderness  which  some 
women  think  can  be  made  atonement  for  almost  any 
word  spoken  or  deed  done.  "  It  was  all  wrong.  I 
oughtn't  to  have  said  a  word.  I'm  a  very  silly 
woman  sometimes.  Of  course,  I  didn't  mean  it  all. 
It  was  this  talk  of  Roger  Mathewson  that  started  me, 
I  guess.  Just  because  he  isn't  like  them  he's  every- 
thing that's  bad." 

Mabel  looked  up,  glad  of  a  change  of  subject. 

"  What  is  he  like  ?  "  she  asked  quickly. 

Mrs.  Jones,  misinterpreting,  became  cautious.  She 
studied  the  girl  a  moment  or  two,  furtively,  before 
she  answered. 

36 


OUTBUKSTS 


"  Mabel,"  she  declared  at  last,  with  the  air  of  one 
making  a  discovery,  "  I  believe  you're  curious  about 
him." 

"  Curious  ?  "  The  girl's  clear  brow  wrinkled  with 
surprise.  "  I  don't  think  so." 

"  You're  very  pretty,  Mabel,"  remarked  Mrs. 
Jones  reflectively.  "  Of  course,"  she  added,  as  if  in 
self- justification.  "  It's  easy  to  be  pretty  at  your 
age.  I  mean  it's  less  work." 

"  Oh,  please  don't  talk  like  that."  The  reddening 
cheek  added  to  the  appeal  in  her  voice. 

"  I  didn't  mean  anything,  child,"  said  Mrs.  Jones, 
a  little  awkwardly.  She  was  puzzled.  Most  girls 
would  have  taken  the  remark  as  a  compliment. 
Mabel  was  dense  about  such  matters.  It  was  the 
only  thing  she  held  against  the  girl  except,  perhaps 
unconsciously,  her  youth  and  her  innocent  happiness. 
Sometimes,  as  now,  there  came  to  the  woman  a  vague, 
disquieting  intuition  that  this  young  girl,  this  poor 
parson's  daughter,  concerning  whom  she  usually 
thought  with  the  natural  sense  of  patronage  which  a 
woman  in  her  position  has  toward  those  she  employs, 
possessed  a  mysterious  something  which  she  herself 
lacked.  The  impression  never  persisted  for  more 
than  a  few  seconds.  No  impression  ever  did  with 
her.  Now  she  threw  it  off  quickly. 

"  And  you  don't  remember  him?  "  she  said  musing- 
37 


THE    YAEDSTICK    MAX 


ly .  "  You  were  pretty  young,  weren't  you  ?  You 
know,  Mabel,  I  can  remember  just  how  you 
looked." 

"  Tall  and  gawky,  with  pigtails?  "  asked  the  girl 
with  a  light  laugh. 

"  Not  at  all,"  retorted  Mrs.  Jones.  "  I  shouldn't 
have  remembered  you  if  you  had  been.  No,  you 
were  slim  and  pretty,  and  dreamy  and  romantic. 
Really,  you  read  too  much,  Mabel.  You  always 
did." 

It  was  an  old  criticism,  and  the  girl  paid  no  atten- 
tion to  it. 

"  Ought  I  to  remember  him  ?  "  she  said,  swinging 
back  to  the  man  they  had  been  discussing.  "  I  re- 
member the  basement  of  the  old  church  at  Credmore. 
It  was  dark  and  mysterious  when  the  blinds  were 
shut.  And  I  remember  the  big,  yellow  pulpit  that 
father  used  to  preach  from,  and  how  ugly  it  was  with 
the  red  carpet.  And  I  remember  such  a  lot  of 
people,  and — oh,  yes — the  garret  in  the  parsonage. 
That  garret  was  wonderful,"  she  ran  on  enthusias- 
tically. "  You  know,  the  people  who  had  been  there 
before  us  had,  every  one  of  them,  left  something,  and 
I  used  to  go  up  there  rainy  days " 

"  I  tell  you,"  Mrs.  Jones  interrupted  reprovingly, 
"  you  are  too  romantic,  Mabel ;  much  too  romantic. 
It  was  all  very  well  when  you  were  young,  but  you're 

38 


OUTBURSTS 


a  grown  woman  now.  As  for  him,"  she  switched  off 
suddenly,  "  of  course,  you  wouldn't  remember  him. 
Ask  your  father  about  him  sometime.  Your  father 
— well — your  father  always  had  a  tender  spot  in  his 
heart  for  all  the  scapegraces." 

"  And  was  he  a  scapegrace?  "  inquired  Mabel. 

"  Roger  ?  I'm  afraid  he  was.  He — "  A  sudden 
thought  came  to  her.  "  Mabel !  "  she  cried.  "  Per- 
haps he'll  be  here  for  my  tea.  That  would  be  lovely. 
He's  such  fun,  and : 

The  outer  door  below  slammed  noisily,  and  Mrs. 
Jones  broke  off  and  listened,  raising  a  warning 
finger.  Then  she  nodded. 

"  It's  Edward,"  she  said,  half  to  herself  and  in 
hardly  more  than  a  whisper.  "  Hurry  upstairs  with 
those  books,  Mabel,"  she  commanded  swiftly. 
"  Really,  it's'a  long  time  since  I  asked  you  to  do  that. 
Hurry,  child,  and  don't  let  him  know,"  she  called 
after  the  fleeing  girl. 

Mabel  and  the  books  out  of  the  way,  Mrs.  Jones 
rushed  frantically  to  the  table,  straightened  up  the 
hooks  which  remained,  and,  as  a  last  bit  of  prepara- 
tion, placed  Mathewson's  letter  conspicuously  upon 
the  highest  pile. 

"  There !  "  she  declared,  feeling  of  her  hair  and 
smoothing  her  dress.  Then  she  sank  into  the  chair 
beside  the  table.  When  Mr.  Jones  entered  a  moment 


THE   YARDSTICK   MAN 


or  two  later  she  was  buried  in  a  book  which,  had  he 
but  noticed,  was  turned  upside  down. 

Mr.  Jones,  however,  was  not  in  the  mood,  to-night 
at  any  rate,  to  notice.  He  kissed  her  in  an  absorbed, 
perfunctory  kind  of  way. 

"  Where's  the  professor  ?  "  he  asked. 

Mrs.  Jones  put  her  book  down  upon  the  table, 
carefully  keeping  the  place  as  though  it  were  im- 
portant. She  never  was  careless  in  her  subterfuge. 
She  always  played  it  through  to  the  end. 

"  Gone  to  bed,"  she  said,  and  then  added,  spite- 
fully :  "  His  invariable  rule,  ten  o'clock." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Jones,  with  sober  preoccupation. 
"  Good." 

"  Good ! "  inquired  his  wife,  scenting  the  faint 
trail  of  news. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  instinctively  feeling  her  curiosity, 
and  with  masculine  perversity  meeting  it  with  sledge- 
hammer frankness.  The  reason  for  many  unhappy 
marriages,  it  is  said,  is  that  men  refuse  to  be  subtle, 
that  they  have  no  sense  of  suspense.  "  Sheldon  is 
coming  around  in  a  minute.  Very  important  busi- 
ness." 

As  he  spoke  he  picked  up  the  letter,  which  lay  at 
his  hand  upon  the  books.  Mrs.  Jones  instantly  for- 
got her  curiosity,  and  held  her  breath  as  she  watched 
him,  expectant  but  fearful.  Any  woman  would  rather 

40 


OUTBURSTS 


give   news   than   hear   it;   and   yet,   what   would  he 
say? 

For  a  moment  he  said  nothing.  Indeed,  he  did  not 
read.  Instead,  he  stood  there,  gazing  blankly  across 
the  room,  the  letter  idly  in  his  hands. 

"  Dorothy,"  he  said  at  last,  with  impressive  solem- 
nity, eminently  fitting  for  so  important  an  announce- 
ment. "  If  this  business  goes  through  we  shall  be 
rich." 

Mrs.  Jones's  attention,  however,  was  unfortunately 
concentrated  upon  the  letter. 

"  Oh,  really  ? "  she  remarked,  in  a  tone  which 
seemed  frivolously  careless  to  her  husband. 

It  seemed  to  him,  sometimes,  that  she  was  always 
frivolous  over  matters  of  serious  import,  and  that  she 
invariably  wept  when  there  was  nothing  to  weep  for. 
It  was  very  annoying. 

"  Humph,"  he  snarled.  "  You  don't  seem  to  be 
very  interested."  And  for  revenge,  as  he  thought, 
he  began  to  read. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  am,"  she  said,  realizing  her  mistake. 
"  I  "  — she  stopped  as  she  saw  him  frown — "  I  opened 
it  because  you  were  late,"  she  declared,  defensively. 

Jones  paid  no  attention.  He  read  the  letter 
through,  his  frown  becoming  blacker  with  each  line. 
Then,  crushing  the  paper  angrily  in  his  hands,  he 
looked  about  at  her. 

4  41 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


"  Any  other  mail?  "  he  growled. 

"  Oh,  yes,  Edward,"  she  cried,  jumping  up,  eager 
to  conciliate  him.  She  started  toward  the  book- 
shelves, but  halfway  across  to  them  she  faltered, 
her  brows  furrowed.  "  Now  where  did  I  put 
them?" 

For  a  few  seconds  Jones  watched  her,  his  lips  com- 
pressed with  ill-concealed  impatience,  as  she  searched 
frantically  and  vainly  up  and  down  the  tops  of  the 
bookshelves. 

"  I  wish  you  would  remember  how  important  my 
mail  is,  Dorothy,"  he  remarked  sternly.  "  It  is  al- 
ways this  way." 

"  Why,  they're  right  here  somewhere,"  Mrs.  Jones 
said  hopefully.  "  I'll  find  them  in  a  minute." 

He  waited  the  full  minute  with  masculine  literal- 
ness. 

"  I  have  spoken  of  this  often  enough." 

"  Quite  often  enough,"  retorted  Mrs.  Jones,  tcp- 
pling  over  a  pile  of  books  on  the  table  in  her  fren- 
zied efforts  to  locate  the  vanished  letters.  "  I'm 
doing  the  best  I  can,  Edward." 

"  It  is  just  as  easy  to  be  orderly  as  not  to  be," 
continued  Mr.  Jones,  with  the  same  exasperating, 
calm  severity.  "  Now  at  my  office " 

"  Oh,  I  know,"  snapped  Mrs.  Jones.  "  Your  office 
is  perfection." 

42 


OUTBUKSTS 


"  Even  my  clerks — 

"  Well,  why  didn't  you  marry  a  clerk  then  ?  " 

She  slammed  a  book  which  she  had  picked  up,  flatly 
upon  the  table  to  emphasize  her  wrath,  and  stamped 
across  to  the  door. 

"  Mabel !  "  she  called.     "  Mabel !  " 

The  girl  came  running  down  the  stairs. 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Jones." 

"  What  did  I  do  with  those  letters  ?  "  demanded 
Mrs.  Jones,  jerking  her  head  irritably,  with  each 
emphatic  word.  "  You  know — the  ones  I  had  in  my 
hand  when  I " 

Mabel  walked  swiftly  across  to  the  telephone  desk. 

"  Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Jones,  looking  triumphantly  at 
her  husband.  "  You  put  them  away.  I  see." 

Mabel  silently  gave  him  the  letters.  Then  she  took 
the  atlas  from  the  table  and  carried  it  into  the  alcove, 
where  she  laid  it  upon  the  desk,  and  began  to  turn 
its  leaves  methodically.  She  was  a  pretty  figure,  half 
standing,  half  kneeling  in  a  big  armchair  with  free 
girlish  abandon.  They  did  not  notice  her,  however. 
Mr.  Jones,  still  frowning,  shuffled  over  the  envelopes 
rapidly,  and  finding  none  which  needed  immediate 
attention,  he  placed  them  unopened  and  in  compact 
good  order  upon  the  very  bookshelves  along  which 
Mrs.  Jones  had  sought  them  a  few  moments  before. 
Of  course  he  meant  nothing  by  this,  but  to  her  femi- 

43 


THE    YARDSTICK    MAN 


nine  mind  it  was  an  insult  added  to  injury.     Un- 
opened, and  there! 

"  But  I  thought  they  were  important,"  she  re- 
marked sarcastically. 

"  I  trust  I  shall  find  them  there  when  I  wish  them," 
Mr.  Jones  replied  with  ponderous  dignity,  glaring  at 
her  so  steadily  that  her  eyes  dropped  before  his. 

Having  gained  this  trifling  triumph,  he  straight- 
ened out  the  letter  which  he  had  held  crumpled  in 
his  hand,  and  reread  it  with  disconcerting  leisure- 
liness. 

"  When  did  this  come  ?  "  he  demanded  at  last. 

"  Why,  this  afternoon,  I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Jones, 
momentarily  cowed  by  his  manner  and  eager  to  make 
amends.  "  It  was  on  the  top  of  the  pile  of  letters," 
she  explained,  "  and  somehow  I  thought  it  was 
Roger's  writing." 

"Roger?" 

"  Why,  everybody  called  him  Roger,"  she  pleaded, 
"  or  Matty." 

"  Matty  ?  "  exclaimed  Jones  in  the  same  sarcastic 
tone. 

"  You  know  they  did." 

"  /  never  did." 

"  Well,  perhaps  not,"  she  admitted.  "  But,  then, 
you  were  always  more — more  dignified  than  the 
others." 

44 


OUTBURSTS 


This  was  an  uncalculated  bit  of  tact  on  Mrs. 
Jones's  part,  but  it  served  the  purpose. 

"  Thank  Heaven,"  said  Jones,  appeased,  "  I  have 
some  dignity.  I  never  have  considered  it  proper  to 
send  my  love  to  other  men's  wives,  either,"  he  added 
accusingly. 

Mrs.  Jones  reddened  and  looked  away. 

"  Oh,  he  doesn't  mean  anything  by  that." 

"  Then  why  does  he  say  it  ?  " 

She  glanced  up  at  him  furtively.  There  was 
something,  almost  of  jealousy,  in  his  doggedly  literal 
interpretation  of  Mathewson's  words.  The  mere  sug- 
gestion of  this  in  her  mind  softened  her  toward  him. 
A  man's  jealousy,  to  almost  any  woman,  is  an  inti- 
mation of  his  love.  It  is  a  feminine  theory,  the  accu- 
racy of  which  remains  to  be  proved. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  she  said  pleasantly.  "  He 
was  just  joking,  I  suppose." 

"Joking!  Yes,  he  always  joked  at  everything 
and  everybody.  Bah!  Is  his  coming  here  a  joke, 
too  ?  "  he  sneered.  "  I  hope  so,  Heaven  knows." 

"  Oh,  no.  I  don't  think  so.  I  think  he  means 
that." 

"  But  without  even  an  invitation  ?  "  he  asked  al- 
most suspiciously.  "  Why,  it's  incomprehensible. 
Hasn't  the  fellow  any  sense  of  the  ordinary  decen- 
cies?" 

45 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAX 


There  was  no  reason  why  Mrs.  Jones  should  have 
attempted  an  explanation  of  Roger  Mathewson's 
words  or  meaning.  There  was  a  question  asked,  how- 
ever, and  she  hastened  with  feminine  zeal  to  answer  it. 

"  After  all,  he  was  a  classmate  of  yours.  He  al- 
ways liked  you,  Edward." 

"  He  never  liked  me,"  he  retorted  sourly,  "  nor  I 
him.  We  had  nothing  in  common.  He  was  a  trifler." 

"  And  then,"  continued  his  wife,  not  heeding  him, 
"  he  is  thoughtless  and  generous  and " 

"  Do  you  mean  to  suggest,  Dorothy,  that  I  am  not 
generous  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  dear."  She  sighed.  "  Oh,  I  guess  it's 
just  his  way,  Edward.  That's  all  one  can  say." 

The  phrase  was  a  red  rag  to  Jones's  reminiscent 
antagonism,  and  he  seized  upon  the  words  as  a  text. 

"  Just  his  way,"  he  repeated  sarcastically.  "  Yes, 
that  was  the  excuse  you  always  gave  for  him,  the  ex- 
cuse everybody  always  gave.  But  " — he  became  sen- 
tentious— "  the  world  judges  men  by  results.  He's 
drifted.  I  knew  he  would.  He  drifted  West  right 
after  we  were  graduated.  Nobody's  heard  of  him  in 
years ;  no,  and  wouldn't  now,  unless  he  wanted  some- 
thing. Look  at  that  letter.  He's  down  and  out.  I 
tell  you,  Dorothy,"  he  finished  with  oratorical  em- 
phasis, "  God  hates  a  drifter." 

Mrs.  Jones  could  frame  no  answer  to  this.  Indeed, 
46 


Jones,  although  he  waited  menacingly  for  a  reply, 
in  reality  expected  none.  He  had,  it  seemed  to  him, 
stated  the  case  against  Mathewson  crushingly  and 
well.  Fortunately  for  them  both,  Mabel  at  this 
juncture  closed  the  heavy  covers  of  the  atlas  with 
a  bang,  and  they  both  turned  toward  her  at  the 
sound. 

"  I've  found  Log  Run,  Wisconsin,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  you  have  ?  "  said  Jones,  glancing  at  his  wife 
sharply.  "Where  is  it?" 

"  It  is  a  little  mining  town  of  about  four  hundred 
inhabitants,"  Mabel  recited.  "  Chief  occupation, 
mining.  In  the  southwest  corner  of  the  state,  on  a 
short  branch  line  of  the  Pacific  &  Eastern.  Was 
there  anything  else  you  wished,  Mrs.  Jones  ?  " 

"  No,  nothing  else." 

Mr.  Jones's  eyes  mechanically  followed  the  girl  as 
she  left  the  room,  but  his  thoughts  were  elsewhere. 

"  Pacific  &  Eastern,"  he  repeated  softly,  in  his 
absorption. 

Again  Mrs.  Jones  caught  the  scent  of  news. 

"  What  is  it,  dear?  "  she  inquired. 

He  turned  to  her,  and,  strange  to  say,  he  was  al- 
most smiling.  His  manner,  also,  had  changed  to  a 
good-natured  briskness  .which  surprised  her. 

"  Oh,  never  mind,"  he  said.  "  But  you  see  how  it 
is,  Dorothy.  Mining!  Waiting  for  luck  to  strike 

47 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


him,  while  responsible  people  like  ourselves  are  carry- 
ing on  the  tasks  and  duties  of  the  world." 

"  I  wonder  if  he  is  married,"  said  Mrs.  Jones  sud- 
denly. 

"  Married !  No,  he  probably  has  never  had  money 
enough.  Besides,"  he  added,  carelessly  picking  up  a 
magazine,  the  back-cover  advertisement  of  which  had 
caught  his  attention,  "  men  of  his  sort  dodge  any 
additional  responsibilities  and  burdens." 

Mrs.  Jones  flinched  at  the  words.  Then  she  put 
her  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"  Is  marriage  such  a  burden,  Edward?  "  she  asked. 

Jones  glanced  back  at  her  over  his  shoulder,  utterly 
surprised.  He  had  been  calculating  how  much  money 
those  soap  people  spent  for  their  advertising  in  a 
year,  and  how  much  gross  profit  there  must  be  in 
the  business  to  permit  of  so  large  an  advertising 
appropriation.  It  took  him  a  moment,  therefore,  to 
untwist  his  tongue  from  the  figures,  and  in  that  mo- 
ment the  bell  rang. 

"  Of  course  not,  my  dear,"  he  said  hurriedly  and 
with  some  relief.  "  It's  Sheldon.  You  must  let  us 
have  the  room  to  ourselves.  We  have  some  very  im- 
portant matters  to  discuss." 

She  raised  a  warning  hand  and  tiptoed  toward  the 
door,  listening.  He  stared  after  her,  puzzled. 

"  It  might  be — "  she  began. 
48 


OUTBURSTS 


"  Mathewson !  " 

For  the  first  time  the  actual  imminence  of  Mathew- 
son came  home  to  him.  Mathewson  here,  in  his  house, 
with  him  and  with  Dorothy.  With  Dorothy !  That 
would  scarcely  do.  Jealousy  and  suspicion  seized 
him.  "  My  love  to  Dot."  The  phrase  suddenly 
loomed  large  and  significant,  and,  after  the  fashion 
of  husbands,  we  are  told,  he  blamed  his  wife — blamed 
her  for  reading  the  letter,  for  defending  Mathewson 
against  him,  for  listening  now  as  if  she  were  eager 
that  it  should  be  Mathewson  behind  whom  the  outer 
door  had  just  now  closed.  He  did  not  consciously 
distrust  her;  of  course  not.  He  merely  was  one  of 
those  men  who  foresee  calamities  that  cannot  hap- 
pen, who  plan  carefully  against  them,  and  who  then 
worry  about  the  plans.  At  Sheldon's  voice,  from 
the  hall  below,  Jones's  body,  which  had  been  tense, 
relaxed. 

"  Thank  Heaven !  "  he  exclaimed  devoutly. 

"  Of  course,"  remarked  his  wife,  as  carelessly  as  she 
could,  "  if  he  should  come,  I  suppose  I  had  better 
give  him  the  blue  room,  hadn't  I  ?  " 

Sheldon's  voice  had  recalled  him  to  other  things, 
things  of  supreme  importance  for  the  moment.  Shel- 
don's step  was  on  the  stairs  now. 

"  I   tell  you,   Dorothy,  I  have  too   much  to  do. 

Here's  the  professor  to  see  to-morrow,  and " 

49 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAX 


"  But  it  wouldn't  be  decent  to  turn  him  away, 
Edward." 

"  It  isn't  decent  of  him  to  come." 

"  But  Edward " 

Sheldon  was  on  the  landing  now.  Why  was  she  so 
persistent  ? 

"  Of  course,  if  you  want  him  here " 

"  Oh,  Edward,  that  isn't  fair." 

She  stopped  instinctively.  Sheldon  stood  in  the 
doorway.  She  turned  to  him  with  a  convincing  smile. 

"  Oh,  good  evening,  Mr.  Sheldon,"  she  said  sweetly. 

Sheldon  came  forward  awkwardly.  There  were  few 
women  with  whom  he  felt  at  home.  Somehow  he 
was  too  big  for  a  drawing-room,  and  his  voice  too 
noisy.  Since  his  wife's  death  Sheldon  had  avoided 
the  society  of  women  as  much  as  he  decently  could. 
He  found  so  few  who  knew  a  good  horse  when  they 
saw  one,  or  anything  about  the  breeds  of  dogs,  or 
who  cared,  on  a  hot  Saturday  afternoon,  to  sit  in  a 
grandstand  and  watch  the  Giants  play  baseball. 
His  wife  had  liked  all  those  things  as  keenly  as  he. 
As  for  the  narrow  range  of  social  conversation  from 
poetry  to  scandal,  he  knew  little  about  it,  and  was 
too  honest  to  attempt  it. 

"  This  is  a  pretty  late  call,  Mrs.  Jones,"  he  said 
apologetically,  his  big  voice  booming  down  the  long 
room.  "  But  it's  your  husband's  fault.  That's  right, 

50 


OUTBURSTS 


isn't  it,  Jones  ?  Say,  I'm  sorry  I  wasn't  quicker,"  he 
added  to  his  partner.  "  It  was  that  kid  of  mine." 
He  grinned  broadly.  "  She's  a  queer  one.  I  must 
tell  you  about  it.  She  was  awake  when  you  rang  up. 
I  told  her  I  was  coming  over  here,  and  what  do  you 
think  she  said?  She  wanted  to  know  if  I  liked  you 
better  than  I  did  her.  Of  course  I  laughed  at  her  and 
told  her  this  was  business.  *  And  do  you  care  more 
for  business  than  you  do  for  me  ? '  she  says.  Well, 
I  picked  her  up  at  that  and  started  to  rock  her  to 
sleep,  and  pretty  soon  she  sat  up.  *  You  can  put  me 
down  now,'  she  says.  ' 1  just  wanted  to  be  sure.' 
Now  what  do  you  think  of  that?  " 

It  was  a  long  speech  for  Sheldon.  Little  Anita 
was  the  only  text  to  which  he  could  talk  untiringly, 
easily,  in  any  company. 

"  You  made  her  happy,"  declared  Mrs.  Jones. 
"  Probably  she's  fast  asleep  by  this  time." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Sheldon.  Then,  an  idea  strik- 
ing him,  "  Say,  can  I  use  your  'phone?  " 

Without  waiting  for  Jones's  nod,  he  hurried  across 
to  the  telephone  and  called  his  house. 

"  Dorothy,"  remarked  Mr.  Jones  in  the  interval, 
"  we'll  have  to  take  care  of  Mathewson  to-night  if 
he  conies,  I  suppose.  Then  we'll  see." 

"  I  ought  to  have  told  you,"  returned  Mrs.  Jones, 
very  close  to  him.  "  The  blue  room  is  all  ready." 

51 


THE    YAEDSTICK   MAN 


"  Oh,  it  is,  eh  ?  "    He  frowned  again. 

A  second  later  Sheldon  hung  up  the  receiver,  a 
broad  smile  on  his  face. 

"  Bless  her  heart,"  he  ejaculated.  "  Say,  you 
called  the  turn,  Mrs.  Jones.  She's  sound  asleep. 
Funny,  isn't  it?" 

"  Funny !  "  cried  Mrs.  Jones.  "  Oh,  you  men ! 
You're  too  exasperating." 

It  was  not  said  lightly.  Her  heart  suddenly 
pitied  deeply  the  motherless  little  girl,  herself,  and 
all  womankind.  It  was  a  sharp  flashing  up  of  fires 
within  her  which  were  constantly  smoldering,  ready 
to  burst  into  flame.  Men  were  exasperating — hope- 
lessly, stupidly  exasperating.  She  forgot  for  the 
moment  that  the  big,  red-faced,  kindly  Sheldon  had 
been  late  for  his  appointment  because  he  had  pre- 
ferred to  stay  at  home  and  rock  little  Anita  to  sleep. 
She  remembered  only  that  it  seemed  "  funny "  to 
him  that  so  little  a  thing  should  soothe  her. 

"  Dorothy !  "  Jones  authoritatively  broke  the 
strained  silence.  "  You'll  see  that  we  are  not  dis- 
turbed." He  half  turned  from  her  with  the  abrupt 
air  of  dismissal. 

For  a  moment  she  hesitated,  dots  of  angry  red  in 
her  cheeks,  her  hands  nervously  clenching  and  un- 
clenching. 

"  Oh,  you  shall  not  be  disturbed,"  she  said  at  last, 
52 


OUTBUESTS 


her  voice  keen-edged  with  spite.  "  You're  talking 
business." 

She  stamped  out  of  the  room  and  fairly  ran  up 
the  stairs.  The  direction  was  aimless.  Downstairs 
would  have  served  as  well.  She  wanted  to  get  away, 
that  was  all. 

On  the  landing  above,  however,  her  kaleidoscopic 
mind  was  reminded  of  the  blue  room,  and  she  turned 
to  it  as  to  a  refuge:  something  to  do,  something  to 
get  her  mind  away  from  her  tingling  nerves,  some- 
thing to  calm  that  useless  anger  which  rose  within 
her  so  frequently  nowadays.  She  stood  on  the  thresh- 
old, her  practiced  woman's  eye  taking  in  every  detail 
of  Mabel's  arrangements.  All  was  in  order.  It  was 
done  even  better  than  she  would  have  done  it  herself, 
she  declared  now  bitterly. 

Instantly  she  turned  against  herself.  She  had  had 
no  right  to  say  such  a  thing  to  Mr.  Sheldon.  It  was 
crass,  impolite,  everything  that  was  ill-mannered. 
She  was  always  doing  that  sort  of  thing  of  late.  She 
had  no  control  of  herself  any  more.  'And  how  un- 
utterably useless  she  was!  She  never  did  anything. 
There  was  nothing  for  her  to  do,  except  foolish,  un- 
important, social  things  which  had  long  ceased  to 
interest  her.  Edward  talked  to  her  as  if  she  were  a 
child.  Probably  he  was  right.  Not  even  the  servants 
respected  her,  and  nobody  really  cared,  she  told  her- 

53 


THE    YARDSTICK    MAN 


self  excitedly.  There  was  no  reason  why  they  should. 
She  was  useless,  useless,  useless.  She  couldn't  stand 
it.  She  just  couldn't  stand  it  any  longer. 

The  door  slammed  behind  her  with  the  last  faint 
flaming  of  her  annoyance,  and  a  second  later  she  tum- 
bled with  great  gusty  sobs  upon  the  immaculate  bed 
of  the  blue  room. 


CHAPTER    V 

A   GREAT   PLAN    AND   AN    ARRIVAL 

JONES   turned   to   his   partner   with   an   air   of 
apology. 

"  Mrs.  Jones  is  tired  to-night." 

"  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  guess  she's  right,"  Sheldon 
said  with  a  wry  grin.  "  We  men  are  the  limit.  Do 
you  know,  Jones,  I've  doped  it  out  that  there  are  a 
whole  lot  of  things  we  don't  understand.  Well,"  he 
added,  as  Jones  made  no  reply,  "  what's  up?  " 

Instantly  Jones  was  alert,  domestic  trials  for- 
gotten. 

"  Let's  go  in  here,"  he  said  with  a  cautious,  low- 
ered voice,  leading  the  way  into  the  alcove. 

They  sat  down,  Jones  bolt  upright,  Sheldon 
lounging  back  comfortably  in  his  chair.  Jones 
gravely  produced  cigars,  and  they  lit  up  with  that 
seriousness  which  becomes  men  who  are  about  to  dis- 
cuss business  matters. 

"Well?"  asked  Sheldon  again. 

"  We've  been  watching  Pacific  &  Eastern  some 
lately,  Sheldon,"  began  Jones,  fingering  his  cigar 
impressively. 

55 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


"  Ay-uh,"  grunted  Sheldon,  nodding.  "  It's  been 
acting  funny." 

"  Well,"  said  Jones,  leaning  forward  triumphantly, 
"  I  know  why." 

Sheldon  eyed  him  speculatively. 

"You  do,  eh?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Jones.  Then,  lowering  his  voice  as  if 
to  increase  the  sensation  which  his  words  were  bound 
to  produce,  "  I  dined  with  Carnahan  to-night." 

Sheldon  raised  his  eyebrows  with  satisfying  sur- 
prise. 

"  Whew,"  he  whistled.    "  John  P.  ?  " 

Jones  merely  nodded,  and  Sheldon  stared  at  him 
with  that  sudden,  increased  respect  which  association 
with  John  P.  Carnahan  brought  to  any  man  among 
the  Wall  Street  fraternity.  Few,  indeed,  knew  the 
little  railroad  Napoleon,  and  he  had  no  intimates. 
That,  some  cynics  said,  was  half  of  his  power ;  he  had 
no  friends  to  undo  him.  Certainly  no  one  doubted 
his  power.  A  few  lines  of  interview  with  him  caused 
more  talk  in  the  business  world  than  reams  of  speeches 
by  the  President  of  the  United  States,  and  his  most 
casual  word  was  mulled  over  and  given  a  dozen  dif- 
ferent meanings  by  the  men  of  the  financial  markets. 
A  rumor  with  Carnahan's  name  attached  to  it  would 
work  quicker  havoc,  some  people  said,  than  a  state- 
ment of  facts  by  any  other  man.  No  one  understood 

56 


A    GREAT    PLAN    AND    AN   ARRIVAL 

him.  Everybody  feared  him,  and  with  good  rea- 
son. He  was  a  man  of  iron — a  rigid,  relentless  per- 
sonality who  combined  machiavellian  cunning  and 
shrewdness  with  immense  resources  of  capital  and 
backing. 

It  was  not  strange,  therefore,  that  a  momentary 
hush — the  awe  which  Wall  Street  men  have  for  a 
prime  minister  of  their  money  god — fell  upon  Jones 
and  Sheldon  now. 

"  I  did  him  a  favor  a  few  months  ago,"  explained 
Jones  at  last.  "  Some  church  business." 

"  Oh,"  returned  Sheldon  dryly.  "  Sure  enough.  I 
think  you  told  me.  Well,"  he  added  with  a  boisterous 
laugh,  "  I  didn't  think  you'd  be  lending  John  P.  any 
money." 

Jones  was  not  in  mood  for  humor. 

"  Sheldon,"  he  said  earnestly,  "  I  want  you  to 
listen.  This  thing  is  big." 

"  Sail  ahead." 

"  Old  man  Holworthy,  of  the  Pacific  &  Eastern, 
has  always  had  a  traffic  agreement  with  the  L.  &  B. 
You  know  that." 

"  Sure." 

"  Between  them  they've  been  getting  a  lot  of 
through  business  away  from  Carnahan's  line." 

"  I  suppose  so." 

"  Sheldon  " — Jones's  voice  sank  until  it  was  scarce- 
5  57 


THE    YARDSTICK    MA1ST 


ly  more  than  a  whisper — "  Carnahan  has  bought  con- 
trol of  the  L.  &  B." 

"What?"  It  was  more  an  exclamation  than  a 
question. 

"  Yes.  Nobody  knows  it.  It'll  be  announced  Fri- 
day that  he  has  it.  That  isn't  all.  It'll  be  announced, 
too — listen  now — that  the  traffic  agreement  with  Hoi- 
worthy,  which  runs  out  next  month,  will  not  be  re- 
newed. Do  you  get  it?  " 

"  Of  course.  So,"  Sheldon  added  admiringly,  "  he 
timed  it  just  right,  eh?  " 

"  Timed  it  ?  "  repeated  Jones.  "  Why,  he's  been 
waiting  for  it  for  two  or  three  years,  not  saying  a 
word;  just  laying  his  lines.  Nobody's  had  an  ink- 
ling of  it,  and  nobody  will  have  until  he's  ready." 

"  I  see."  Sheldon  gazed  straight  ahead,  thought- 
fully. 

"  That  will  leave  the  Pacific  &  Eastern  high  and 
dry.  No  connections  east." 

"Let's  see,"  Sheldon  mused  aloud.  "Pacific  & 
Eastern  is  down  to  85  to-day." 

"  Yes,  Carnahan  is  selling  it  right  and  left.  It'll 
drop  to  10  the  day  he  makes  his  announcement." 

"Friday?" 
"  Yes." 

The  two  men  stared  at  each  other,  their  eyes  glint- 
ing keen  and  hard. 

58 


A    GREAT    FLAX    AND    AN   ARRIVAL 

"  How  about  Holworthy?  "  asked  Sheldon. 

"  He  doesn't  know.  Trust  Carnahan  for  that." 
Jones  was  fairly  gloating  now.  "  Besides,  Carnahan 
says  he  is  a  pretty  sick  man.  That  isn't  known 
cither." 

Sheldon  puffed  away  at  his  cigar  for  some  sec- 
onds. 

"  Pretty  hard  luck,"  he  remarked  at  last. 

"  Hard  luck?  "  repeated  Jones,  not  understanding. 

"  Yes.  For  old  Holworthy,  I  mean,  of  course. 
I've  always  had  a  lot  of  respect  for  him.  Pretty 
decent  sort.  He's  always  played  the  game  straight." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  admitted  Jones.^  "  It's  hard  luck  for 
Holworthy." 

This  was  an  aspect  of  the  matter  which  he  did  not 
care  to  consider.  Like  every  other  man,  Jones  had 
a  conscience,  but  he  disliked  to  be  reminded  of  it 
during  business  hours.  One  had  to  accept  things  as 
they  were.  It  was  every  man's  privilege  to  succeed. 
Indeed,  it  was  his  duty.  Yes,  Jones  believed  that. 
He  had  been  taught  it  from  his  childhood.  It  was, 
he  conceived,  part  of  the  American  doctrine. 

"  But  it's  business,  Sheldon,"  he  added  quickly. 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  agreed  his  partner.  "  And 
if  John  P.  is  after  him,  he  may  as  well  quit.  That 
man,"  he  added,  with  a  mixture  of  respect  and  an- 
tagonism, "  is  too  infernally  clever  to  live." 

59 


THE   YARDSTICK   MAN 


Jones,  however,  was  not  thinking  of  Carnahan,  any 
more  than  he  was  of  Holworthy. 

"  Well,"  he  said  eagerly,  "  it's  our  opportunity. 
We  can  be  rich  Saturday,  both  of  us.'* 

Sheldon  eyed  him  for  a  minute,  his  mouth  widen- 
ing in  a  malicious  grin. 

"  What?  "  he  said,  half  humorously.  "  You  don't 
mean  that  you're  going  to  speculate?  " 

"  It  isn't  speculation,  Sheldon.  There's  no  risk. 
It's  a  certainty.  We  can't  lose." 

Sheldon  shook  his  head. 

"  Take  it  from  me,  Jones,"  he  said  soberly.  "  I'm 
an  older  man  than  you  are.  There  never  was  a  sure 
thing  in  Wall  Street." 

"  But  this  time,"  urged  Jones,  "  we're  on  the  in- 
side. You  know  I  don't  believe  in  speculation,  that  I 
have  always  stood  out  against  it.  But  this  time — 
well,  what's  the  matter  with  it,  Sheldon?  " 

Sheldon  puffed  his  cheeks  full  of  tobacco  smoke 
and  blew  it  out  with  an  explosive  sound. 

"  In  the  first  place,"  he  asked,  "  are  you  dead  sure 
John  P.  is  giving  it  to  you  straight?  You  know  he 
has  given  tips  before  in  a  roundabout  kind  of  a  way, 
and  say,  Jones,  nobody  ever  made  any  money  yet  on 
one  of  Carnahan's  tips." 

Jones  nodded  with  a  half  smile. 

"  I  thought  you'd  say  that.  You  haven't  known  it, 
60 


A    GREAT    PLAN   AND   AN    ARRIVAL 

but  we've  been  selling  Pacific  &  Eastern  for  Carna- 
han  for  over  a  fortnight." 

"So?"  said  Sheldon,  after  a  surprised  second. 
"  Well,  I'll  admit  that  looks  like  business.  And 
there's  no  fear  from  Holworthy  ?  "  he  added. 

"  I  tell  you  he  doesn't  know,  and  won't  until  Fri- 
day," said  Jones  with  nervous  insistence.  "  He's  sick, 
besides,  and  then  you  know  what  he  is.  He's  the  old- 
fashioned  kind ;  doesn't  know  Wall  Street,  and  is 
proud  he  doesn't.  He  has  always  run  things  alone, 
and  he  hasn't  anybody  to  fall  back  on  except  a 
recently  adopted  son,  who  doesn't  count." 

Sheldon  smoked  silently  for  nearly  a  minute,  and 
Jones  watched  him,  a  trifle  out  of  sorts  at  the  unen- 
thusiastic  reception  his  great  news  had  received,  but 
nevertheless  with  considerable  anxiety.  In  spite  of 
Sheldon's  faults,  Jones  admitted  to  himself  that  his 
judgments  were  valuable.  Sheldon  had  known  Wall 
Street  for  years,  and  he,  as  much  as  any  man  Jones 
knew,  had  that  sixth  sense  which  somehow  guessed 
beforehand  the  swift,  inexplicable  fluctuations  of  the 
market. 

"  It  looks  easy,"  Sheldon  remarked  meditatively. 
"  Nobody  can  beat  Camahan.  If  you're  really  sure 
about  him — '  He  shook  his  head  slowly  as  if  to  in- 
dicate that  certainty  about  Carnahan  was  an  impossi- 
bility. "  Say,  Jones,"  he  went  on,  more  heartily  as 

61 


THE    YAEDSTICK   MAN 


the  thought  took  hold  of  him,  "  I'd  like  to  make 
two  or  three  millions  for  that  kid  of  mine.  Wouldn't 
it  be  great,  eh?  But —  He  paused,  his  low  brow 
rippled  with  wrinkles.  "  Somehow  I  have  a  hunch  to 
go  slow.  It's  too  easy." 

"  Oh,  bosh !    You're  superstitious." 

"  Sure.  Always.  Number  thirteen,  over  your  left 
shoulder — the  whole  business.  Friday !  There's  an- 
other thing  against  it.  I  mean  that.  Look  here, 
Jones."  He  held  out  his  well-shaped  hand.  "  A 
long  third  finger  is  a  sign  of  a  gambler.  Look  at 
mine — a  mile  long.  Look  at  yours — short  .  and 
stubby.  Now,  I  like  to  take  a  chance.  That's  why 
this  thing  seems  too  easy  to  me.  You're  different." 
Sheldon  chuckled.  "  They've  got  to  send  it  to  you 
in  a  safe,  by  registered  mail.  Of  course,"  he'  added, 
as  he  saw  his  partner's  face  redden,  "  that's  why  we 
are  such  a  good  team,  Jones.  Why " 

He  stopped,  for  Jones  suddenly  raised  a  warning 
finger. 

"  Suppose  we  go  down  early  in  the  morning  and 
decide."  Jones  spoke  hurriedly,  and  in  a  half 
whisper. 

"What's  the  matter,  Jones?"  Sheldon  grinned. 
"  Gum-shoeing  in  your  own  house,  eh?  " 

"  We  can't  be  too  careful  and — "  Jones  hesitated 
and  broke  off. 

62 


A    GREAT    PLAN    AND    AN    ARRIVAL 

"  I  am  sure  Mr.  Jones  is  here,"  came  Mabel's  voice 
from  beyond  the  partition. 

"What  is  it?" 

Jones  started  to  his  feet  irritably.  Intuition 
warned  him.  It  was  Mathewson.  Yes.  There  in 
the  doorway  from  the  hall  stood  the  tall,  well-remem- 
bered figure,  and  the  amused,  aggravating  gray  eyes 
were  looking  across  and  down  at  him. 

"  Hello,  Turtle." 

Mr.  Jones  tried  to  conceal  his  annoyance,  for  po- 
liteness' sake,  and  bustled  forward  with  perfunctory 
welcome. 

"'Ah,  Mathewson.     Glad  to  see  you." 

"  Sure  you  mean  that?  "  asked  the  tall  man  quietly 
as  they  shook  hands. 

The  unexpectedness  of  the  question,  and  the  wistful 
steadiness  of  the  look  that  went  with  it,  confused 
Jones. 

"  Why — of  course — "  he  began  to  stammer. 
Then,  awkwardly,  he  called  Sheldon  and  introduced 
them. 

There  was  something  about  the  solid  grip  of  Shel- 
don's hand,  something  about  the  heartiness  of  his 
plain  "  How  are  you  ?  "  which  made  the  tall  man's 
eyes  narrow  with  frank  pleasure.  That  pleasure  did 
not  diminish  when  Sheldon  almost  immediately  turned 
from  them  and  called  to  the  girl,  who  was  hesitatingly 


THE    YAEDSTICK   MAN 


and  with  some  embarrassment  moving  slowly  out  of 
the  room.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  not  entirely 
consideration  with  Sheldon,  although  that  doubtless 
was  part  of  it.  Mabel  Wright  had  taken  a  fancy 
to  Anita,  and  that  at  once  had  found  her  a  place  in 
Sheldon's  heart. 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  he  called.  "  I  want  to  tell  you 
a  new  one  about  the  youngster."  And  without  a 
polite  word  of  excuse  he  lumbered  off,  leaving  the  two 
men  together. 

The  tall  man's  glance  followed  Sheldon,  rested  an 
instant  on  the  girl's  flushed  face,  and  then  returned 
to  Jones.  The  two  men  eyed  each  other  with  specu- 
lative interest,  as  men  will  who  have  not  seen  each 
other  for  years. 

What  Jones  saw  pleased  him,  but  not  in  the  way 
one  might  have  thought.  It  was  the  travel-worn, 
dusty  clothes  which  brought  the  half  smile  to  Jones's 
lips.  Here  was  proof  direct  of  what  he  had  said  to 
his  wife;  another  example  of  his  sound  judgments. 
What  a  disillusionment  for  Dorothy !  For  a  second 
he  inwardly  gloated  over  it.  Otherwise  Mathewson 
had  changed  but  little.  The  same  tall,  sinewy  figure 
with  that  long  reach  which  had  made  him  famous  in 
Credmore  baseball;  the  same  leisurely  ease  of  move- 
ment; the  same  irritating  smile  at  the  corners  of  his 
mouth.  He  was  absurdly  youthful  for  a  man  of  more 

64 


A    GREAT    PLAN    AND    AN   ARRIVAL 

than  thirty.  This  was  a  fault,  rather  than  anything 
else,  to  Jones,  who  always  had  tried  to  look  older 
than  he  was,  who  always  had  been  proud  of  that  solid, 
substantial,  experienced  look  which  he  knew  was  an 
asset  in  his  business. 

The  only  thing,  indeed,  which  disconcerted  Jones  in 
his  moment  of  scrutiny,  was  the  returning  look  which 
Mathewson  gave  him.  There  was  nothing  disagree- 
able about  it,  nothing  which  Jones  could  assert,  even 
to  himself,  was  unfriendly.  And  yet  there  was  some- 
thing in  it  which  bothered  him,  something  which 
seemed  to  weaken  the  foundations  of  his  self-satis- 
faction. It  was  a  half-amused,  clear-eyed  look  which 
seemed  to  penetrate  back  into  some  corner  of  Jones's 
being  which  he  himself  ignored,  but  kept  hidden. 
Jones  remembered  that  look.  It  was  one  of  the  things 
which  had  made  him  covertly  hate  Mathewson 
throughout  their  college  days,  one  of  the  things 
which  had  made  Mathewson  a  thorn  in  his  flesh  al- 
ways. Of  course  Jones  never  would  have  admitted, 
then  or  now,  that  Mathewson  was  of  importance 
enough  to  be  taken  seriously.  He  had  been  popular 
with  the  careless,  unambitious  crowd,  and  he  had 
been  prominent  in  games.  Such  a  man  was  scarcely 
one  to  be  reckoned  with.  And  now  Jones  suddenly 
became  overconscious  of  the  luxurious  room  in  which 
they  stood,  of  his  own  carefully  groomed  appearance, 

65 


THE    YARDSTICK    MAN 


of  his  tightly  packed  security  box  at  the  bank,  and 
of  his  bright  prospects.  The  contrast  pleased  him. 

"  I  reckon  my  letter  surprised  you  some,  Turtle." 

The  slow,  insinuating  drawl,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
abominated  nickname,  stirred  all  of  Jones's  latent 
antagonism. 

"  I'd  rather  you  wouldn't  call  me  Turtle,"  he  said 
testily,  and  with,  as  well,  something  of  the  superi- 
ority which  his  mood  of  a  moment  before  had  left 
with  him. 

"  Oh,  all  right.  Only,"  added  Mathewson,  with  a 
little  chuckle,  which  increased  Jones's  annoyance,  "  it 
does  fit,  old  man.  I  might  almost  call  you  Snapping 
Turtle." 

"  We're  grown  men,  Mathewson.  We  can't  be  boys 
always." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  we  can't,  that's  all,"  fumed  Jones. 
"  Life  is " 

"  Real  and  life  is  earnest,"  broke  in  Mathewson 
with  mock  solemnity,  "  eh,  Turt — "  he  stopped  short 
and  shook  his  head  soberly.  "  I  beg  your  pardon — 
Jonesey.  No,"  he  added,  wagging  his  head  once 
more,  his  eyes  twinkling  in  spite  of  his  outward  grav- 
ity. "  That  won't  do,  either."  He  sighed  deeply. 
"  Jones,"  he  said  with  an  air  of  resignation. 

Raging  within,  but  realizing  his  helplessness  before 
66 


A    GEEAT    PLAN    AND   AN    ARRIVAL 

that  familiar,   taunting   attack,  Jones   tried  to   ig- 
nore it. 

"  Your  letter  was  a  surprise,"  he  began  in  his  most 
precise,  businesslike  manner ;  "  a  pleasant  surprise, 
of  course,"  he  added.  He  would  teach  the  fellow 
something  about  good  manners,  at  any  rate.  "  Un- 
fortunately," he  went  on  briskly,  "  I  shall  be  very 
busy  for  the  next  few  days." 

The  smile  left  Mathewson's  face.  His  jaw  settled 
solidly. 

"  So  shall  I,"  he  broke  in  with  slow  emphasis, 
which  would  not  have  been  lost  upon  Jones  had  he 
not  been  thinking  entirely  of  himself  at  the  moment. 
"  Blamed  busy,  and  I  want  your  help " 

"  All  right.  Next  week."  Jones  interrupted  him 
at  that  word.  Did  he  think  he  could  borrow  money 
within  five  minutes  of  his  arrival  at  the  house  ?  The 
fellow  had  no  tact.  If  he  had  come  in  a  decent  kind 
of  a  way,  with  a  reasonable  amount  of  humility, 
Jones  might  have  done  something  for  him.  It  was 
necessary  to  teach  him  a  lesson.  "  My  hands  are  full 
now.  I  can't  take  on  anything  more  at  the  moment." 

A  low,  tender,  girlish  laugh  checked  Mathewson's 
reply.  He  smiled,  instead,  and  turned  to  glance  with 
appreciation  at  the  pair  by  the  door. 

"  Say,  but  that  sounded  good,"  he  drawled. 

Jones  was  only  too  glad  of  a  diversion. 
67 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


"  Miss  Mabel,"  he  said,  raising  his  voice,  "  won't 
you  tell  Mrs.  Jones  that  Mr.  Mathewson  is  here?  " 

The  girl  looked  up,  nodded  brightly,  and  with  a 
graceful  word  to  Sheldon,  slipped  away  on  her  errand. 

"How  is  Dot?"  asked  Mathewson  immediately. 
If  he  had  felt  the  rebuff,  there  was  nothing  in  his 
shrewd,  humorous  look  to  indicate  it. 

"  Mrs.  Jones  is  very  well." 

In  spite  of  himself  Mathewson  chuckled.  Then  he 
stopped  and  smoothed  his  face  into  a  look  of  feigned 
concern. 

"  Mrs.  Jones  ?  "  he  repeated.  "  Say,  you  haven't 
changed  her  first  name,  too,  have  you  ?  " 

Fortunately  for  Jones,  Sheldon  joined  them. 

"  I  was  telling  Miss  Mabel  that  story  about  Anita, 
— my  daughter,  Mr.  Mathewson,"  he  explained. 

"  How  many  youngsters  have  you,  Jones  ?  "  in- 
quired the  tall  man,  smiling. 

"  I  have  no  children." 

"  And  you've  been  married  how  long?  " 

"  About  ten  years." 

"My!"  ejaculated  Mathewson,  shaking  his  head 
with  amused  disapproval.  "  What  a  lot  of  wasted 
time!" 

"  That's  what  I  tell  him,"  said  Sheldon  with  one 
of  his  booming  laughs. 

Jones  tried  to  frame  a  retort,  but  he  was  too  an- 
68 


A    GREAT    PLAN    AND   AN   ARRIVAL 

noyed.  The  subject  was  distasteful,  if  not  improper. 
And  for  an  idler  like  Mathewson  to  use  the  words 
"  wasted  time  "  to  him,  that  was  enough  to  anger  a 
saint. 

"  Humph,"  he  grunted.    "  Humph." 

It  was  Mrs.  Jones  who  this  time  came  to  his  res- 
cue. There  was  still  a  little  redness  about  her  eyes, 
which  a  hasty  application  of  cold  water  had  not  en- 
tirely erased.  No  one  but  the  most  discerning  would 
have  noticed  it,  however,  for  she  swept  down  upon 
Mathewson  with  an  exuberant  welcome,  which  was 
in  marked  contrast  to  the  way  her  husband  had  re- 
ceived him. 

"  Well,  Roger  Mathewson ! "  she  exclaimed,  her 
hand  outstretched  long  before  she  reached  him,  and 
her  smile  broadening  with  honest  pleasure. 

"  Hello,  Dot."    He  met  her  with  smiling  heartiness. 

"  Well,  this  is  like  old  times,"  she  cried  gayly, 
shaking  his  big  hand  with  embarrassed  vigor ;  "  and 
who  do  you  suppose  is  upstairs,  snoring  away 

"  Dorothy  !  "  broke  in  Mr.  Jones  severely. 

"  Well,  he  was.  I  heard  him  as  I  came  past  his 
door." 

"Who  was  it?"  asked  Mathewson  with  open 
amusement. 

"  Professor  Trowbridge,"  said  Mrs.  Jones  in  low- 
ered tones,  as  if  she  were  telling  an  impressive  secret. 

69 


THE    YARDSTICK    MAN 


Then  she  laughed.    "  You'll  see  him  in  the  morning," 
she  added. 

Mathewson  pursed  his  lips  in  a  whistle  of  surprise. 

"  Whew !  Well,"  he  said,  shrugging  his  shoulders, 
**  I  reckon  I  can  stand  it  if  he  can." 

"  He  is  just  the  same,  only  more  so,"  declared  Mrs. 
Jones. 

"  The  same  might  be  said,  more  complimentarily, 
of  you,  Dot.  Just  the  same,  only  more  so." 

"  And  that  sounds  exactly  like  you,"  she  retorted. 

Mathewson  eyed  her  brilliant  face  approvingly 
for  a  second.  The  girl  he  remembered  had  grown 
into  a  beautiful  woman.  The  years  had  given  her 
the  only  thing  she  lacked,  the  years  and — something 
else. 

"  Jones,  old  man,"  he  said  genially,  turning  to  her 
husband,  "  is  prosperity  good  for  a  woman  ?  An- 
swer " — he  waved  one  of  his  long  arms  in  her  direc- 
tion— "  yes." 

"  Nonsense,"  broke  in  Mrs.  Jones,  but  with  such 
unfeigned  pleasure  in  her  eyes  that  her  husband 
frowned.  "  But  they  want  to  talk  business,"  she 
added  quickly,  noticing  his  look  and  misinterpreting 
it.  "  Somehow  prosperity  reminded  me.  Funny  how 
your  mind  works.  We'll  go  down  into  the  music 
room."  And  without  waiting,  she  turned  decisively 
toward  the  door. 

70 


A    GREAT    PLAN    AND    AN    ARRIVAL 

Mathewson  glanced  across  at  Jones. 

"  I'm  sorry  if  I  interrupted  you,"  he  said  slowly. 
"  Why  didn't  you  tell  me?  " 

For  the  first  time  since  he  had  come  into  the  room 
his  tone  really  pleased  Jones. 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right,"  he  replied.  "  We  were  all 
through  anyhow.  We'll  all  go  down,  eh,  Sheldon  ?  " 

"  Of  course,"  agreed  Sheldon,  measuring  Mathew- 
son's  height  with  his  eye  and  thinking,  if  the  truth 
must  be  known,  that  a  man  with  a  reach  like  that, 
backed  by  such  a  build,  ought  to  make  an  unusually 
clever  boxer. 

Mrs.  Jones,  surprised  and  pleased,  waited  for  them 
in  the  doorway.  As  they  came  down  upon  her,  how- 
ever, three  abreast,  veritable  stepping  stones  in 
height  from  Mathewson  on  one  end  to  Jones  on  the 
other,  Jones  halted,  puffing  out  his  cheeks,  his  small 
sharp  eyes  scrouged  up  thoughtfully. 

"  Oh,  by  the  way,  Mathewson " 

"  Yes." 

"  You  run  along,  Dorothy,"  said  Jones.  "  We'll 
be  down  in  a  minute.  A  matter  of  some  importance." 

The  light  on  Mrs.  Jones's  face  faded  quickly.  The 
old  pouting  look  of  resentment  came  in  its  place. 
"  Importance !  "  How  she  hated  that  word.  She 
stood,  delaying,  until  she  heard  Jones's  first  words, 
as  he  went  on. 

71 


THE   YARDSTICK   MAN 


"  You  come  from  out  in  the  Pacific  &  Eastern 
country,"  he  began.  Mrs.  Jones  threw  up  her  hands 
with  a  gesture  of  utter  disgust,  and  hurried  away 
down  the  hall.  Her  husband  did  not  notice  her,  how- 
ever. He  was  carefully  picking  the  phrase  which 
would  gain  him  the  information  he  desired.  "  Is  it 
true  that  old  Holworthy,  the  head  of  the  road,  is  not 
well?" 

Mathewson  looked  up  sharply.  Before  he  could 
speak,  Sheldon,  who  had  halted  near  the  door, 
broke  in. 

"  Good  Lord,  Jones/'  he  cried  with  a  mixture  of 
complaint  and  amusement,  "  you  can't  forget  the 
office  for  five  minutes.  Say,  you  ought  to  sleep  down 
there  with  a  bed  of  tape  and  a  ticker  for  a  pillow." 
He  added  one  of  his  noisy  laughs. 

Strangely  enough,  however,  he  had  no  response, 
not  even  from  Mathewson.  The  tall  man  was 
gazing  at  Jones  so  steadily  as  to  be  most  discon- 
certing. 

"  The  public  hasn't  heard  anything  of  that  sort," 
he  said  quietly,  "  and  wouldn't  like  to.  They  think 
well  of  him  out  there." 

Sheldon  caught  the  seriousness  of  his  tone. 

"  They  ought  to,"  he  said.  "  He's  done  a  lot  for 
them,  all  right." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mathewson  with  conviction.  "  He's 
72 


A    GREAT    PLAN    AND    AN   ARRIVAL 

been  a  builder — a  real  builder.  There  isn't  as  well 
run  a  railroad  in  the  country." 

There  was,  all  at  once,  a  solidity  about  his  speech, 
a  suggestion  of  settled  power,  a  decisiveness  in  the  set 
of  his  jaw,  a  firm  purposefulness  in  the  look  of  his 
eyes,  which  made  Jones  hesitate  for  a  moment  before 
he  spoke.  This  was  a  new  phase  of  Mathewson. 
He  never  had  seen  it  before.  The  leisurely  slope 
of  the  tall  man's  shoulders  had  become  rigid,  the 
drawl  of  his  speech  dynamic,  and  the  whole  as- 
pect of  him,  even  to  Jones's  meager  imagination, 
seemed  almost  threatening,  in  spite  of  his  simple 
words. 

"  It  has  a  good  future,  you  think,"  Jones  inquired 
as  casually  as  possible,  "  even  if  Holworthy  should 
die?" 

"  He  won't  die,"  said  Mathewson  evenly.  "  Not 
for  a  good  while  yet." 

"  But,"  ventured  Jones,  "  suppose " 

"  Why,  yes.  A  big  future,  I  should  say.  I'll  tell 
you,"  he  went  on  more  genially,  but  in  the  same  level 
tones.  "  What  little  I  have  is  in  Pacific  &  Eastern 
stock.  If  I  had  more  money  I  would  buy  more  Pacific 
&  Eastern  stock.  Of  course,"  he  added,  falling  into 
the  drawl  once  more,  and  his  eyes  shifting  from  one 
to  the  other  of  the  men  before  him,  "  I'm  no  financier. 
I  suppose  a  gang  of  unscrupulous  speculators  here 
6  73 


THE   YAEDSTICK   MAN 


might  wreck  it."  He  hesitated  a  moment.  "  Wall 
Street  isn't  civilized  yet,"  he  added. 

The  jangling  tones  of  a  piano  below,  struck  so 
viciously  as  to  prove  that  Mrs.  Jones  was  still  out 
of  temper,  jarred  across  these  last  words.  Somehow 
they  fitted  in  with  and  increased  Jones's  instant  an- 
noyance at  Mathewson's  suggested  criticism. 

"  Wall  Street  is  a  much  maligned  institution,"  he 
declared  ponderously. 

"  Sounds  good,  Jones,"  broke  in  Sheldon,  "  but 
we're  no  bunch  of  tin  angels.  I'm  not  one  myself, 
and  there  are  a  lot  down  there  worse  than  I  am." 

Mathewson  turned  to  him  with  a  smile  which  had 
a  deal  of  comradeship  in  it. 

"  I'd  be  willing  to  bet  on  that,"  he  said  quietly. 

"  Oh,  well,  of  course,"  admitted  Jones  reluctant- 
ly, "  there  are  black  sheep  everywhere.  I  didn't 
mean " 

"  Listen,"  Mathewson  interrupted  him.  Below, 
the  piano  had  gradually  drifted  into  a  clear  melody, 
a  melody  which  caught  his  ear  and  his  heart,  a 
melody  which  was  simple  enough  of  itself  but  which 
brought  with  it  a  host  of  memories.  His  face  lighted 
up.  "  That's  '  Amici.'  The  greatest  word  in  the 
language,  Jones,"  he  went  on  with  a  new  buoyancy. 
"  Friends !  Say,  I've  sung  that  song  to  a  bunch  of 
cattle,  just  to  keep  from  being  lonesome.  I've  sung 

74 


A   GKEAT    PLAN   AND   AN   AEKIVAL 

it  to  a  gang  of  miners  who  never  heard  of  a  college, 
but  who  lived  that  song  better  than  most  of  us. 
Come  on." 

A  veritable  boy  again,  he  turned,  and  without 
waiting  for  the  others  he  strode  out  of  the  room  and 
down  the,  stairs,  humming  the  old  tune  as  he  went. 
And  before  they  reached  the  doorway,  toward  which 
they  mechanically  moved  together,  the  melody  began 
again,  this  time  with  a  voice  and  words. 

The  voice  was  a  big,  resonant  baritone,  untrained, 
of  course,  and  uneven,  but  big  and  powerful,  one 
of  those  voices  which  seem  glad  to  be  singing.  The 
words,  to  anyone  who  never  had  sung  them  as  an  un- 
dergraduate, were  commonplace  enough.  No  critic 
would  have  admitted  that  they  were  an  indication  of 
poetical  genius,  but  they  meant  a  great  deal  to  the 
host  of  men  who  had  been  comrades  at  Credmore.  All 
down  through  the  years  they  had  been  singing  that 
song.  They  are  singing  it  yet,  and  will  be,  it  is  likely, 
for  a  century  to  come.  The  words  meant  a  good  deal 
to  the  man  who  was  singing  them,  as  he  stood  beside 
the  piano  stool,  his  face  boyishly  eager,  and  his  head, 
his  arms,  his  feet,  indeed  his  whole  body,  beating  time. 

Our  strong  band  shall  ne'er  be  broken 

Formed  in  Credmore  blue, 
Far  surpassing  wealth  unspoken, 

Friendship  strong  and  true. 
75 


THE    YAEDSTICK   MAN 


This  was  the  verse,  and  from  it  he  swung  roundly 
into  the  old  refrain: 

Amici  usque  ad  aras 

Deep  graven  on  each  heart, 
Shall  be  found  unwavering,  true, 

When  we  from  life  shall  part. 

The  two  men  still  stood  in  the  doorway  of  the 
library.  Sheldon,  who  was  not  a  college  man  and 
who  was  tone-deaf,  caught  the  spirit  and  jerked  his 
head  back  and  forth  in  time  with  the  rhythm.  Jones 
stood,  his  eyes  downcast,  thinking. 

"  Say,"  said  Sheldon,  as  the  piano  ran  off  into  a 
dashing  interlude,  "  you're  going  to  put  him  wise, 
I  suppose?  " 

Jones  shook  his  head  without  glancing  up. 

"  We  couldn't  afford  to  do  that,  Sheldon." 

Sheldon  turned  slowly  and  looked  at  him  before  he 
spoke. 

"  All  he  had,  he  said.    It  would  be  hard  luck " 

"  I  know,  Sheldon,"  said  Jones  testily,  "  but  we 
mustn't  take  any  risks.  There's  too  much  at  stake." 

There  was  a  pause  for  a  few  seconds.  Then  Shel- 
don shrugged  his  shoulders,  as  if  by  that  gesture  he 
was  throwing  off  any  responsibility  in  the  matter. 

"  All  right.     He's  your  friend,  not  mine." 

Almost  as  he  spoke,  Mathewson  called  from  below, 
76 


A    GREAT    PLAN    AND    AN   ARRIVAL 

"  Come  on,  Jones.  I  can't  be  the  whole  Glee  Club 
alone." 

"  All  right,"  replied  Jones.  Then,  turning  to 
Sheldon,  he  said  in  a  low  voice :  "  We  can't  mix  senti- 
ment and  business." 

The  second  verse  was  just  beginning  when  they 
entered  the  music  room: 

Memory's  leaflets  close  shall  twine 

About  our  hearts  for  aye. 
Waft  us  back  o'er  life's  broad  track 

To  pleasures  long  gone  by. 

This  time  Mrs.  Jones  was  singing  also,  and  Shel- 
don, falling  in  readily,  leaned  his  elbow  on  the  piano, 
facing  the  others,  and  growled  away  in  a  monotone. 
Jones,  meanwhile,  took  his  place  on  the  other  side 
of  the  piano  bench,  the  preoccupied  frown  still  on  his 
face.  He  was  slow  about  adding  his  voice  to  the 
others,  and  when  he  did  at  last,  on  the  refrain,  he 
blundered  along  half-heartedly.  He  was  somewhat 
chagrined  to  find  that  he  had  forgotten  the  words. 
He  realized,  too,  that  his  voice  was  harsh  and  rasp- 
ing. It  was  a  long  time  since  he  had  sung  anything. 
A  real  man  didn't  have  time  for  that  sort  of  non- 
sense. Nevertheless,  he  was  disgruntled  in  a  vague 
kind  of  a  way,  and  this  feeling  increased  when  Ma- 
thewson,  at  the  finish  of  the  verse,  with  all  the  exu- 

77 


THE   YARDSTICK   MAN 


berance  of  an  undergraduate,  danced  across  the  room 
and  back,  emitting  sounds  which  he  recognized  as 
being  one  of  the  old  battle  slogans  of  certain  class 
walk-arounds,  while  Mrs.  Jones  and  Sheldon  ap- 
plauded vigorously.  It  occurred  to  Jones  that  they 
might  awaken  Professor  Trowbridge,  and  he  was 
about  to  mention  the  fact  as  a  method  of  stopping 
the  performance,  when  Mathewson,  breathless,  quit  of 
his  own  accord. 

"  I  tell  you,  Jones,"  gasped  Mathewson,  dealing 
him  a  resounding  slap  on  the  back,  "  that's  a  great 
little  place  up  there — Credmore." 

"  Yes,"  admitted  Jones  judiciously.  "  A  good  col- 
lege. Fine  faculty,  high  moral  standard.  And  we," 
he  added,  with  a  certain  amount  of  prideful  emphasis 
upon  the  pronoun,  "  are  bringing  its  financial  affairs 
into  pretty  good  shape  now." 

"  We  ?  "  inquired  Mathewson. 

"  Yes,"  said  Jones.    "  I'm  a  trustee,  you  know." 

"  No,  I  didn't.     Good,"  he  added  heartily. 

"  Yes,"  continued  Jones,  interested  now  and  warm- 
ing up  to  his  subject.  "  We  have  had  some  prob- 
lems. For  example,  they  were  not  getting  the  yield 
out  of  their  endowment  that  they  might  have.  We 
have  been  gradually  reinvesting  it.  We  are  net- 
ting, at  present,"  he  added  proudly,  "  an  average 
of  approximately  five  per  cent  in  good,  safe  secu- 

78 


A    GREAT    PLAN   AND   AX   ARRIVAL 

rities,  and  I  believe  we  can  better  that.     Then  there 

are  other  tilings ;  for  example " 

At  this  moment,  however,  Mrs.  Jones's  elbow,  quite 
inadvertently  of  course,  slipped  from  the  music  rack 
and  crashed  upon  the  keys,  filling  the  room  with  a 
clamor  of  discord. 


CHAPTER    VI 
PARDNERS 

MABEL  WRIGHT  had  been  a  member  of  the 
Jones  household  for  upwards  of  six  months. 
For  some  time  before  that  she  had  been  urging  her 
father  to  let  her  do  something,  something  prac- 
tical, that  is — something  which  would  be  a  help 
to  the  heavily  burdened  little  preacher  in  the  Waite- 
ville  parish.  Ruth,  the  daughter  next  younger,  was 
old  enough  now,  she  had  explained,  to  take  the  place 
of  "  assistant  mother,"  which  she  herself  had  filled 
for  a  number  of  years.  There  was  no  reason  why 
she  should  delay  any  longer  about  starting  out  for 
herself. 

Always,  however,  John  Wright  had  put  her  off. 
He  loved  his  home,  this  struggling,  conscientious  lit- 
tle preacher.  He  wished  to  keep  it  intact.  He  could 
not  bear,  as  he  said  to  Mother  Wright,  at  one  of  the 
numerous  times  when  they  talked  the  matter  over, 
to  have  one  of  the  sheep  leave  the  fold. 

For  another  thing,  while  he  would  not  have  ad- 
mitted any  favoritism — and  certainly  no  one  in  that 
big,  happy  family  ever  would  have  charged  him  with 

80 


PAEDNERS 


it — he  cared  for  Mabel  in  a  way  which  made  their 
relation  a  little  different,  perhaps  a  little  closer,  than 
his  relation  with  any  other  member  of  his  flock.  It 
was  natural  enough.  She  was  the  oldest  daughter. 
For  years  he  had  depended  upon  her,  only  less  than 
upon  Mother  Wright,  to  keep  the  little  household 
running  and  happy  upon  his  meager  salary.  And 
she,  with  her  serene  temperament  and  her  merry, 
youthful  spirits,  often  had  helped  him  out  of  sloughs 
of  despond  into  which  Mother  Wright,  as  well  as 
himself,  had  been  plunged,  when  some  untoward  cir- 
cumstance had  added  that  little  more  necessary  to 
make  the  load,  under  which  they  were  struggling,  too 
heavy  to  be  borne. 

There  was  a  fraction  of  pride  in  it  as  well.  John 
Wright  was  old-fashioned,  in  all  the  best  meaning  of 
the  word.  If  his  eldest  had  been  a  son,  he  long  since 
would  have  urged  him  out  into  the  affairs  of  life.  But 
a  daughter's  place,  he  believed,  was  in  the  home.  He 
hated  the  modern  development  of  woman's  work,  even 
while  he  recognized  theoretically  its  necessity.  And 
when  he,  with  all  that  fund  of  imagination  which  he 
possessed,  thought  of  Mabel  at  work  in  some  down- 
town office,  he  fairly  shuddered.  There  was  a  fine, 
fragile  quality  in  the  girl  which  made  him  yearn  to 
shelter  her.  lie  knew  too  well  how  quickly  much  of 
her  romantic  idealism,  which  he  had  taught  her,  would 

81 


THE    YAEDSTICK    MAN 


be  shattered  by  rough  contact  with  the  outer  world. 
It  was  not  that  he  feared  for  her.  He  was  confident 
of  the  foundations  upon  which  her  character  rested, 
for  he  and  Mother  Wright  had  spent  zealous  years 
building  that  masonry  thick  and  strong  from  the 
ground  up.  What  he  trembled  for  was  her  happi- 
ness, the  gathering  clouds  on  the  now  sunshine-filled 
face,  and  the  harsh  discouragements  which  the  care- 
less, busy  life  of  the  metropolis  was  certain  to  throw 
upon  her.  And  so  he  had  put  it  off,  although  he 
knew  she  was  right,  although  he  knew  that  her  stay- 
ing was  a  luxury  which  he  could  not  afford,  and  al- 
though, as  he  often  told  himself,  he  was  limiting  her 
own  rightful  development. 

Then  the  night  had  come  when,  for  the  first  time 
in  years,  he  had  gone  down  to  a  Credmore  Alumni 
dinner.  There  were,  of  course,  few  of  the  men  of  his 
own  time  there,  but  he  knew  many  of  the  younger 
ones,  the  men  who  had  been  boys  during  the  years 
when  he  was  the  preacher  at  the  little  Credmore 
church.  Among  these  was  Edward  C.  Jones,  whose 
success  he  had  watched  with  almost  paternal  pride, 
for  John  Wright  was  a  preacher  who  was  a  kind  of 
second  father  to  all  the  boys  and  girls  of  his  parish. 
He  had  been  pleased  when  Jones  had  sat  down  beside 
him  that  night,  and  had  asked  him  the  conventional 
questions  about  him  and  his — pleased  and  proud. 

82 


PARDNERS 


And  he  had  talked  in  his  simple,  frank  way  about 
Mother  Wright  and  Mabel  and  Ruth  and  all  the 
others.  Incidentally,  because  it  had  been  on  his  mind 
that  day,  he  had  told  Jones  of  his  problem  in  regard 
to  his  oldest  daughter.  And  then,  like  a  flash  out  of 
the  clear  sky — it  was  providential,  nothing  less,  to 
Wright's  reverent  mind — came  Jones's  unexpected 
offer.  It  seemed  that  Mrs.  Jones  had  a  quantity  of 
correspondence,  social  correspondence  in  the  main, 
together  with  church  matters  and  women's  club  mat- 
ters, and  so  forth,  and  so  forth.  How  would  Mabel 
like  the  task  of  "social  secretary"?  The  title 
sounded  very  dignified  and  fine  as  Jones  spoke  it. 
Of  course,  he  had  added,  there  would  be  other  things 
to  do  besides  that.  She  could  help  Mrs.  Jones  in 
dozens  of  ways,  but  he,  Jones,  would  be  glad  to  give 
the  girl  a  home,  and  a  good  home,  with  plenty  of 
good  books  in  it  for  her  to  read,  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing.  And  he  would  pay  her  something  as  well ; 
not  much  at  the  start,  of  course,  but  more  later,  if 
she  proved  herself  worthy.  That  naturally,  he  said, 
was  a  mere  business  matter,  and  would  be  dealt  with 
in  a  businesslike  way. 

John  Wright  had  left  the  dinner  early  that  night, 
and  he  had  spent  all  the  time  during  his  journey  out 
to  the  small  suburb,  planning  how  he  should  tell  his 
news.  The  little  parsonage  had  been  dark  when  he 

83 


THE   YARDSTICK   MAN 


arrived,  except  for  the  dim  light  in  the  room  where 
Mother  Wright  was  already  dozing  in  her  vigil  of 
waiting  up  for  him.  For  half  an  hour  they  had 
talked  of  it  in  hushed  tones,  and  then  they  had  tip- 
toed down  the  hall  to  Mabel's  room,  and  had  sat  on 
the  edge  of  her  bed  while  her  father,  with  a  great 
air  of  secrecy,  slowly  led  up  to  his  momentous  news. 
And  then  they  had  laughed  about  it  together,  the 
three  of  them,  like  a  trio  of  children ;  and  then  they 
had  cried  a  little  in  sheer  joy.  And  then,  because 
John  Wright  never  did  anything  without  taking  it 
to  that  Higher  Power  whom  he  served,  they  had  knelt 
down  at  the  side  of  the  bed  and  prayed  about  it.  And 
finally,  the  old  couple  had  kissed  the  girl  good  night 
and  had  tiptoed  down  the  hall  to  their  own  room, 
where  they  sat  up  for  hours,  talking  excitedly  and 
planning  what  it  would  mean  to  the  girl's  future. 

These,  then,  were  the  auspices  under  which  Mabel 
Wright  had  become  a  member  of  Jones's  household, 
at  least  as  far  as  she  was  concerned.  Jones's  motive 
had  been  a  mixed  one.  In  the  first  place,  it  should 
be  said  to  his  credit  that  he  liked  to  do  kindly  things. 
He  found  real  satisfaction  in  giving  help  to  people 
who  needed  it,  and  if  he  demanded  a  rather  inordinate 
amount  of  appreciation  in  return,  and  if,  as  well, 
it  added  measurably  to  his  self-esteem,  that  was 
merely  a  small  human  failing  which  was  part  of  a 

84 


larger  virtue.  Beyond  all  this,  however,  there  was 
a  practical  reason.  Jones  seldom  let  his  heart  run 
away  with  his  head.  He  believed  that  sort  of  thing 
to  be  bad  policy,  both  for  himself  and  for  the  other 
people  concerned.  Mrs.  Jones  did  need  somebody. 
The  cares  of  the  household  weighed  upon  her,  Jones 
thought.  The  servants  were  too  much  in  her  mind. 
She  needed  not  merely  the  help  he  had  outlined, 
rather  pompously,  to  Mabel's  father,  but  she  needed 
as  well,  Jones  had  decided,  companionship  of  a  prac- 
tical kind.  His  wife,  Jones  admitted  to  himself, 
sometimes  with  irritation  and  sometimes  with  kindly 
patronage,  lacked  practicality.  And  in  his  business- 
like way  he  was  keen  enough  to  know  that  John 
Wright's  daughter,  brought  up  in  the  hard  training 
school  of  a  poor  minister's  home,  would  have  exactly 
the  qualities  which  he  felt  his  wife  needed.  It  was, 
therefore,  with  Jones  a  practical  experiment  as  well 
as  a  kindness,  and  this,  like  most  of  the  many  things 
Jones  had  done  which  were  outwardly  charitable,  had 
proved  to  be  a  good  investment. 

Six  months  had  passed  by;  six  months  filled,  for 
the  girl,  with  a  varied  routine  which  was  still  novel 
to  her.  She  did  not  even  yet  feel  at  home  in  the 
big  luxurious  house,  which  was  such  a  sharp  contrast 
to  the  humble  little  parsonage  in  Waiteville.  Some- 
how it  did  not  seem  like  a  home  to  her,  with  all  the 

85 


THE    YARDSTICK    MAN 


complicated  machinery  of  a  city  house;  with  all  the 
extensive  furnishings  which,  it  seemed  to  her  some- 
times, were  too  fine  to  be  used;  with  the  appalling 
lines  of  stairs  to  be  climbed;  with  so  many  servants, 
each  with  his  or  her  own  specialty.  It  seemed  more 
like  a  hotel  than  a  home,  and  she  marveled  sometimes 
how  these  two  people  could  choose  such  an  abiding 
place. 

This  was  the  greatest  change  in  her  attitude  of 
mind  which  had  come  during  her  time  there.  At  first 
she  had  been  almost  envious.  It  was  all  so  spacious 
and  beautiful,  and  there  were  people  to  do  every 
little  thing  at  one's  bidding.  She  had  thought  of 
her  father  and  mother  and  the  six  remaining  chil- 
dren, packed  away  so  tightly  in  the  little  box  of  a 
house  out  in  the  suburbs ;  thought  of  them  with  some- 
thing that  was  like  pity,  and  a  sense  of  shame  that 
she  should  be  enjoying  all  this  splendor  so  near  by. 

Gradually,  however,  there  had  come  a  transforma- 
tion. She  had  moments  of  homesickness  nowadays. 
She  was  homesick  for  the  comforts  of  simple  living — 
the  boxlike  little  parsonage  had  become  to  her  mind 
the  acme  of  coziness ;  homesick  for  the  simple  routine 
in  which  each  helped  to  take  care  of  the  other,  instead 
of  this  jarring,  complicated  mechanism,  which  seldom 
ran  smoothly,  and  in  which  some  cog  or  other  seemed 
always  out  of  order.  She  was  homesick  for  the  bare 

86 


PARDNEIiS 


little  back  parlor  which  was  filled  with  the  shouts  of 
children,  instead  of  with  tapestried  furniture  and  silk 
hangings ;  homesick,  indeed,  for  all  the  comforts  of 
poverty,  which  somehow  she  had  come  to  miss  with  a 
feeling  of  emptiness  which  all  the  luxury  about  her 
was  unable  to  fill. 

Much  of  this  was,  of  course,  unconscious.  She 
never  had  reasoned  it  all  out.  She  knew  only  that 
with  greater  frequency,  as  time  went  on,  came  the 
momentary  depressed  moods,  during  which  she  felt 
sometimes  as  if  she  almost  would  like  to  run  down- 
stairs, out  past  the  big  front  door,  never  to  come 
back.  And  usually  these  moods  came,  it  may  be  said, 
after  some  such  talk  as  she  had  had  with  Mrs.  Jones 
to-night,  or  after  she  had  heard  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jones 
in  one  of  their  almost  daily  arguments. 

It  seemed  to  her  childlike  imagination  at  such  times 
as  if  the  big  house  were  veritably  haunted  with  evil 
spirits.  Goblins,  she  called  them,  and  they  came  to 
be  very  real  to  her.  Sometimes  she  fairly  felt  their 
presence,  and  when  some  sharp  words  sprang  to  her 
lips  or  some  unkind  thought  to  her  mind — it  hap- 
pened nowadays  so  often  that  it  worried  her — she 
would  seem  to  hear,  from  somewhere  in  the  air,  the 
fiendish  chuckle  of  the  little  sprites,  who  kept  the 
house  in  that  constant  atmosphere  of  discontent  and 
unrest. 

87 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


She  fought  off  this  growing  impression  alone. 
Never  did  her  father  or  mother  hear  of  that  inward 
struggle  through  which  she  was  passing.  They  were 
so  happy  about  it  all,  she  decided  that  she  had  no 
right  to  tell  them.  And  probably,  she  added,  with 
customary  self-depreciation,  it  was  she  who  was 
wrong.  And  so  she  went  through  her  daily  routine 
of  varied  duties  with  quiet  persistence,  and  if  the 
lilting  laugh  and  the  sunny  smile  were  less  frequent, 
it  was  only  because,  as  Mrs.  Jones  said  approvingly, 
the  girl  was  getting  older  and  more  responsible. 

There  was  one  place  in  the  house,  however,  which 
was,  to  the  girl,  an  almost  untrammeled  joy — the 
library.  Most  of  her  leisure  moments  found  her 
there,  dipping  into  some  new  mine  of  romance  or  re- 
visiting some  old  one.  Even  when  she  worked  she 
settled,  whenever  she  could,  into  the  big  armchair  in 
the  library  alcove,  where  her  old  friends,  the  books, 
surrounded  her  with  reposeful  quiet;  where,  as  she 
said  one  day  laughingly  to  her  father,  she  could  at 
least  smell  them.  Their  musty,  delicious  odor  recalled 
moments  of  delight,  and  foretold  others  for  the 
future. 

When  she  came  downstairs  that  evening,  after  call- 
ing Mrs.  Jones  and  after  putting  to  rights  again  the 
blue  room  in  which  she  had  found  her,  she  naturally 
gravitated,  therefore,  to  the  library,  and,  finding  it 

88 


PARDNERS 


empty,  she  stayed.  She  had  heard  the  singing  from 
belo\v.  Even  now  she  was  humming  under  her  breath 
the  old  tune  of  "  Amici."  She  had  heard  it  at  home 
often. 

They  were  all  downstairs  evidently,  she  thought  to 
herself,  as  she  hovered  over  the  bookshelves  which 
contained,  in  a  long  line,  those  red-bound  volumes 
which  were  her  particular  joy  and  solace:  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Jones,  and  Mr.  Sheldon,  and,  yes,  the  stranger, 
Mr.  Mathewson  they  called  him.  She  chose  a  volume 
at  random  and  turned  slowly  to  her  favorite  seat  in 
the  alcove.  She  did  not  read  at  once,  however.  The 
book  lay  sprawled  half  open  in  her  lap,  and  she  gazed 
down  at  it  with  vague,  unseeing  eyes.  She  was  won- 
dering about  this  tall  stranger.  She  had  overheard 
enough  that  evening  to  make  her  understand  that  he 
was  not  particularly  welcome  to  the  household,  cer- 
tainly not  to  Mr.  Jones.  Mrs.  Jones  liked  him,  how- 
ever. A  slow  flush  stole  into  her  cheeks  as  she  re- 
membered some  of  the  things  Mrs.  Jones  had  said. 
And  then  there  was  Professor  Trowbridge.  She  had 
been  really  proud  to  know  him.  She  had  heard  so 
much  about  him  always.  He  had  spoken  of  this  Mr. 
Mathewson  in  no  uncertain  nor  pleasant  terms.  Yes, 
she  told  herself,  she  supposed  there  must  be  some- 
thing very  wrong  about  him. 

During  the  past  six  months,  however,  Mabel 
7  89 


THE    YARDSTICK    MAN    * 


Wright  had  come  to  think  for  herself,  more  than  ever 
in  her  life  before.  Formerly  it  had  been  a  straight 
road  for  her,  this  matter  of  opinion,  but  now  it  had 
become  winding  and  devious,  with  numerous  cross- 
roads where  the  way  was  not  clear,  and  where  she 
was  forced  to  choose  for  herself  the  direction  she 
should  take.  Once  or  twice,  indeed,  she  had  plunged 
off  into  the  wilderness  to  make  a  short  cut  of  her  own, 
refusing  any  of  the  conventional  paths  which  people 
had  laid  down  for  her.  The  experience,  moreover, 
had  delighted  her  with  a  sense  of  romance,  of  adven- 
ture, and  of  independence,  which  had  invited  her  to 
further  mental  excursion  of  the  same  kind. 

She  suddenly  cast  aside  everything  which  she  had 
heard  about  Roger  Mathewson.  Her  own  impres- 
sions of  him  grouped  together  swiftly.  He  had 
shrewd,  kindly  eyes.  He  smiled  all  the  time,  she 
thought — almost  all  the  time.  She  remembered  one 
swift  transition  which  she  had  seen  in  the  lower  hall- 
way. She  did  not  know  what  had  caused  it.  He  had 
looked  very  grim  and  strong;  but  not  unkind,  not 
even  then.  His  slow,  quiet  manner  gave  her  an  im- 
pression of  reserved  force,  as  if  he  were  using  only  a 
part  of  himself,  and  holding  the  rest  in  readiness  for 
an  emergency.  He  was  very  frank  and  homely  and 
easy  to  talk  to. 

A  loud,  hearty  burst  of  laughter  came  up  from 
90 


PARDNEES 


below,  and  she  nodded  to  herself  gravely.  That  was 
his  laugh,  and  it  had  in  it  a  note  of  real  comradeship. 
She  listened  for  it  to  repeat,  her  eyes  bright.  There 
was  only  the  distant  rumble  of  talk,  however,  and  she 
fell  back  to  her  musing  once  more. 

He  came  from  far  away,  somewhere  out  in  those 
Western  distances  which  she  had  traveled  only  in  her 
imagination.  It  was  land  of  colorful  romance  to  her. 
He  had  come  very  suddenly.  She  liked  that,  and 
yet —  Rapidly  there  came  back  to  her  the  direct 
criticisms,  the  vague  hints  which  had  been  marked  up 
against  him  by  others.  It  was  strange,  very  strange, 
she  thought.  Then  a  remark  of  Mrs.  Jones  came 
back  to  her :  "  I  believe  you're  curious  about  him." 

She  jumped  up,  tingling  with  a  sense  of  shame  and 
discovery  which  troubled  her.  Realizing  that  the 
lights  were  burning  uselessly  in  the  long  library,  she 
walked  across  to  the  wall  by  the  door  and  switched 
them  off.  She  came  back  more  slowly.  Yes,  she 
admitted  to  herself  frankly,  she  was  curious  about 
him,  now  that  she  had  seen  him.  She  would  ask  her 
father  about  him,  she  decided,  and  resolutely  returned 
to  her  book,  and  to  the  free  followers  of  the  banished 
Duke  under  the  greenwood  tree  of  the  Forest  of 
Arden. 

Shortly,  however,  she  was  interrupted.  She  be- 
came conscious  of  the  shuffling  of  chairs  below,  and 

91 


THE    YAKDSTICK  ' 


of  voices,  which  sounded  louder  as  they  came  out  into 
the  hallway.  The  front  door  slammed.  Mr.  Sheldon 
had  gone,  she  said  to  herself,  coming  back  sharply 
into  realities  at  the  sound.  Then  she  heard  footsteps 
on  the  stairway,  and  the  murmur  of  conversation 
coming  nearer,  until  the  words  were  distinct. 

"  I'll  take  a  look  at  the  library  windows." 

"Why,  they're  all  right,  Edward.  They're  al- 
ways attended  to." 

"  Yes,  because  I  attend  to  them.  If  I  didn't  they'd 
be  open  every  night  in  the  week." 

"How  you  talk!"  They  were  just  outside  the 
door  now.  "  Oh,  well — if  you  want  to  fuss  !  " 

"  Somebody  has  to  fuss,  my  dear,"  declared  Mr. 
Jones  with  pompous  authority,  as  he  stopped  on  the 
threshold  of  the  library,  "  or  things  wouldn't  get 
done.  Good  night,  Mathewson,"  he  added,  to  put  an 
end  to  the  discussion. 

"  Good  night,  old  man,"  came  that  vibrating  voice 
from  beyond.  Vibrating,  that  was  the  word.  The 
waves  of  it  seemed  to  beat  in  about  Mabel's  heart 
with  little  lapping  thrills  which  she  did  not  under- 
stand, but  which  made  her  hold  her  breath  sharply  in 
the  pause  that  followed,  while  Jones  was  fumbling 
with  the  light  switch. 

"  Old  man,"  she  heard  him  mutter.  "  Just  because 
he  looks  so  infernally  young." 

92 


PARDNERS 


The  lights  went  on,  and  he  started  to  cross  the 
room  with  his  short,  jerky  steps.  Opposite  the  al; 
cove  he  stopped,  and  peered  in  at  her  in  surprise. 

"  Ah,  Miss  Mabel.  So  you're  there.  Did  you 
turn  off  the  lights  ?  "  he  added  with  advance  approval 
in  his  voice. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  That  was  very  thoughtful  of  you.  A  penny 
saved  is  a  penny  earned.  I  wish,"  he  added  with  an 
impatient  sigh,  "  that  Mrs.  Jones  could  learn  that 
lesson." 

He  stamped  on  across  to  the  windows  and  tried 
them  carefully.  Having  satisfied  himself,  he  came 
back. 

"  You  oughtn't  to  read  so  late,  Miss  Mabel,"  he 
said.  "  It's  bad  for  your  eyes." 

"  I'm  going  to  bed  directly,  sir." 

He  lingered  a  moment  as  if  he  wished  to  say  more. 
Then  he  moved  on,  turning  off  the  lights  again  when 
he  reached  the  door. 

"  Good  night,"  he  said  shortly. 

"  Good  night,  sir." 

She  sat  for  a  moment,  smiling  pleasantly  out  into 
the  dark  library.  It  was  kind  of  him,  she  thought  to 
herself  innocently,  to  be  interested  in  her.  When  all 
was  said  and  done,  there  were  many  kind  things  about 
Mr.  Jones.  Her  guileless  mind  took  for  granted  his 

93 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


utter  frankness.  The  real  truth  of  the  matter  was 
that  Jones's  solicitude  for  her  eyes  was  merely  a  sub- 
terfuge. This  staying  up  late  nights,  reading,  was 
the  only  real  criticism  he  had  against  Mabel.  He 
disliked  to  go  to  bed,  feeling  that  some  one  was  still 
up  in  the  house.  It  annoyed  him.  He  never  had 
had  that  experience  until  she  came.  Somehow  he 
could  not  bring  himself  to  speak  to  her  directly  about 
it,  although  he  had  complained  to  Mrs.  Jones  many 
times  when  they  were  alone.  She,  of  course,  had 
ignored  it.  It  was  just  another  one  of  his  fussy 
notions. 

Thinking  of  him,  the  girl  thought  also  of  the  win- 
dows. Every  night  he  made  a  careful  tour  of  the 
house.  He  was  afraid;  afraid  of  burglars.  She 
stared  at  the  dark  room  before  her,  and  shivered  in- 
stinctively. Burglars !  At  home  they  never  had 
thought  of  such  a  thing,  nor  had  they  worried  about 
windows.  How  much  trouble  people  made  for  them- 
selves, she  reflected  philosophically,  merely  by  having 
things  which  other  people  wanted. 

It  was  absurd  to  think  about  it,  however.  She 
lifted  her  book  once  more  decisively,  and  soon  she  had 
forgotten  Mr.  Jones  and  his  fears,  along  with  every- 
thing which  had  to  do  with  the  commonplace  world. 
She  was  wandering,  hand  in  hand  with  Rosalind,  in 
the  mazes  of  the  wonderful  Forest.  The  shaded  light 

94 


PARDNERS 


at  her  left  had  become  the  sunshine,  stealing  down 
through  thick  foliage ;  the  rug  at  her  feet  was  a  path- 
way, carpeted  with  leaves ;  the  desk  was  a  looming 
rock ;  and  the  shadowy  library  beyond  became  the 
mysterious  distances  of  the  forest,  shadowy,  dusky, 
inviting.  Every  night  her  imagination  transformed 
the  conventional  rooms  into  this  or  some  other  won- 
derful country,  peopled  hazily  with  heroic  men  and 
lovely  women,  who  charmed  her  out  of  herself  and 
away  from  all  the  puzzling,  doubting,  querulous 
routine  of  the  day. 

Plow  long  she  sat  there  she  did  not  know.  It  must 
have  been  a  long  time,  she  realized  afterwards,  for  she 
had  turned  many  pages.  Orlando  was  standing  be- 
fore her,  a  tall,  sinewy  figure.  He  was  fastening  that 
sweet  message  of  his  to  the  stout  tree,  for  which  the 
curtain,  swung  back  against  the  alcove  entrance, 
served;  when  suddenly  he  vanished.  As  she  looked 
up  there  was  only  the  curtain,  whose  folds  hung  half 
in  the  gloom  of  the  farther  room.  The  girl  leaned 
forward  breathlessly,  the  Forest  of  Arden  forgotten, 
straining  her  ears  for  the  reality  of  that  sound  which 
had  broken  in  upon  her  dreaming. 

It  came  again,  the  little  creak  which  a  footstep 
makes  unawares,  as  it  tiptoes  stealthily  across  the 
flooring.  It  was  somewhere  out  in  the  hallway.  A 
chill  ran  up  the  girl's  back  as  she  listened.  Her 

95 


THE    YAEDSTICK   MAN 


mouth  was  dry  and  she  swallowed  convulsively.  With 
numb  association  she  could  think  of  nothing  but 
those  staring,  blank  windows  which  he  had  locked. 
Burglars ! 

As  if  to  add  to  the  impression  the  big  clock,  half- 
way down  the  stairway,  began  to  strike  twelve.  She 
jumped,  timidly,  at  the  first  stroke.  The  mellow 
tone  of  the  bell  hid  any  repetition  of  the  creaking 
noises.  She  realized,  with  frightened  desperation, 
that  he  or  they,  whoever  they  were,  might  be,  even 
now,  out  in  that  shadowy  room  into  which  she  peered. 
Her  fingers  caught  at  the  button  of  the  light  bulb 
beside  her.  Instantly  everything  was  in  darkness. 
With  a  swift  movement  she  slipped  to  one  of  the 
curtains,  and,  pulling  it  over  a  few  inches,  she  hid 
herself  in  its  protecting  folds,  panting,  her  heart 
beating  fiercely. 

The  clock  ceased  its  long  toll,  and  the  girl's  ears, 
unnaturally  keen,  listened,  as  she  tried  to  hold  her 
breath  lest  it  betray  her.  Suddenly  she  shuddered. 
There  it  was  again.  It  was  nearer  now,  just  outside 
the  farther  doorway,  her  quick  sense  told  her  again. 
It  was  more  confident,  too,  as  if  the  intruder  had 
thrown  caution  aside.  Then  came  the  sound  of  a 
hand  feeling  about  for  the  light  switch,  and,  a  second 
later,  the  library  burst  into  a  glow  of  brilliancy. 

The  girl  stood  still,  trembling  a  little,  her  eyes 
96 


PABDNEBS 


fixed  upon  the  curtain  before  her.  She  wondered  if 
it  really  hid  her.  If  it  did  not 

The  man  was  crossing  the  room.  Now  she  heard 
him  across  by  the  windows.  There  was  a  thud,  as  of 
the  dropping  of  a  book  upon  the  table ;  then  a  click ; 
and  then  a  voice. 

"  Hudson  4993." 

The  blood  rushed  into  the  girl's  face  once  more, 
and  her  pulse  hammered  almost  deafeningly.  Her 
breath  came  in  quick,  happy  gasps,  and  she  felt  faint 
and  weak  with  reaction.  She  knew  that  voice.  It 
helped  to  steady  her.  Unconsciously  a  smile  came  to 
her  lips.  He  was  there.  She  did  not  question  why. 
She  could  hear  his  fingers  drumming  softly  on  the  tel- 
ephone desk  as  he  waited. 

"Hello.  Hudson  4993?  Is  Mr.  Bruning  there? 
All  right ;  thank  you." 

There  was  another  pause,  during  which  the  girl  re- 
gained courage  enough  to  pull  the  curtain  a  little  to 
one  side  and  peek  out.  His  back  was  half  toward  her 
as  he  sat  hunched  over,  the  receiver  at  his  ear,  his 
mouth  close  to  the  mouthpiece  of  the  telephone.  Now 
his  figure  became  alert. 

"  Mr.  Bruning?     This  is " 

His  ear  had  caught  the  soft  rattle  of  the  rings 
upon  the  curtain  rod.  He  swung  about,  startled, 
and  saw  the  girl.  "  Just  a  moment,  Mr.  Bruning." 

97 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


Covering  the  mouthpiece  with  his  free  hand,  he  turned 
to  her  with  steady,  questioning  gaze. 

"  Are  you  alone  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes." 

He  smiled  that  leisurely,  good-humored  smile  with 
relief. 

"  This  is  a  game  of  hide  and  seek,"  he  said. 
"  You're  '  it,'  do  you  understand?  " 

She  caught  the  childhood  reference. 

"  You  want  me  to — "  she  began,  and  then,  nod- 
ding at  him,  she  closed  her  eyes  and  covered  her  ears 
with  her  hands. 

For  a  second  he  delayed,  his  narrowed,  kindly  eyes 
watching  her. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Bruning,"  he  said  in  the 
'phone,  "  there  were  reasons  for  that.  This  is  Allen 
Holworthy,  Mr.  Bruning.  You  recognize  the  name, 
I  think,  if  not  the  voice.  There  is  a  little  business 
matter  that  I  would  like  to  talk  over  with  you.  .  .  . 
Yes,  at  once.  I  know  it  is  late,  but  I  don't  feel  like 
letting  it  go  until  morning.  ...  In  half  an  hour? 
All  right.  That's  mighty  good  of  you.  Oh,  and  Mr. 
Bruning,  you're  the  only  person  in  New  York  who — 
.  .  .  Yes,  that's  it.  Thanks.  Good-by." 

He  turned  to  look  at  the  swaying,  girlish  figure, 
and  he  smiled  again.  With  three  long  strides  he  was 
beside  her.  He  caught  her  wrists  gently,  and  drew 

98 


PAEDNERS 


her  hands  away.      She  opened  her  eyes,  matching  his 
smile  with  hers. 

"  I  didn't  hear  a  word,"  she  said  proudly. 

"  Of  course  not,"  he  agreed,  dropping  her  wrists. 
*'  Now  listen.  What  I  said  was  this :  '  Mr.  Bruning, 
this  is  Allen  Holworthy.  Can  I  see  you  to-night?' 
He  answered  there  were  people  there  who  would  be 
gone  in  half  an  hour.  Whereupon  I  told  him  he  was 
the  only  person  who  knew  I  was  here,  and  he  said  he 
would  keep  it  dark.  That  was  all.  Oh,  yes,"  he 
added  whimsically,  "  and  he  lives  at  the  Plaza." 

"  But  I  didn't  want  to  know,"  she  said,  hurt  that 
he  should  have  felt  he  must  tell  her. 

"  Perhaps  that's  one  reason  I  told  you."  He 
laughed  carelessly.  "  And  perhaps  there  wasn't  any 
reason  in  it ;  just  impulse.  May  I  smoke?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  said,  rather  awkwardly.  She  was 
not  accustomed  to  have  men  defer  to  her  wishes. 
"  But,"  she  added,  more  at  her  ease  as  he  drew  forth 
his  cigarette  case,  "  you've  spoiled  it  all.  I  wasn't  a 
bit  curious  before,  but  I  am  now." 

"  There  is  nothing  criminal  about  curiosity,"  he 
retorted,  smoking  comfortably.  "  I  was  curious 
about  you  when  I  met  you  down  in  the  hall  to-night. 
Result :  you  told  me  in  about  three  minutes  that  you 
were  Parson  Wright's  daughter ;  that  you  were  living 
here  so  as  to  be  independent — so  as  not  to  be  a  burden 

99 


THE    YAEDSTICK    MAN 


at  home,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing;  that  they  call 
you  "  Social  Secretary  "  because  it  sounds  well,  and 
keep  you  mighty  busy " 

"  I  didn't  really  tell  you  all  that."  She  laughed, 
and  the  lilt  of  it  was  like  the  laughter  she  had  lost 
of  late. 

"  Most  of  it,"  he  declared  with  mock  gravity, 
lounging  easily  against  the  big  table.  "  It  was  just 
the  reward  of  my  curiosity,  and  I'm  still  curious.  Do 
you  like  it  here?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  the  girl.  "  They  are  very  good 
to  me."  She  paused  over  the  last  words,  for  there 
came  back  to  her  all  the  puzzled  wonderment  she  had 
felt  in  the  big  house;  all  the  things  which  had  been 
troubling  her  and  which  she  had  never  put  into  words 
to  anybody.  Somehow,  this  big,  genial  man  seemed 
to  draw  it  from  her,  and  her  long-suppressed  yearning 
to  tell  it  all  to  somebody,  rushed  upon  her  irrepress- 
ibly.  "  Only — "  she  began,  and  tKen  hesitated. 

"Only  what?" 

For  a  second  more  she  faltered,  her  hands  inter- 
lacing nervously.  Then,  coming  a  step  closer  to  him, 
she  said  in  a  mysterious  whisper: 

"  There  are  goblins  in  this  house." 

The  shrewd,  gray  eyes  narrowed,  half  amused,  half 
serious,  wholly  interested  and  friendly. 

"Goblins?" 

100 


PARDNEES 


"  Yes,"  insisted  the  girl,  suddenly  glad  to  have  it 
out.  "  In  the  very  air.  Goblins  of  discontent ;  gob- 
lins of  unrest;  suspicious,  never-satisfied  goblins  that 
bicker  and  fight.  Oh,  you  won't  understand,"  she 
ran  on.  "  Nobody " 

"  I  understand,"  he  broke  in  with  even,  gentle 
tones,  in  which  there  was  no  trace  of  ridicule. 

"  Oh,  do  you  ?  "  she  cried  eagerly.  "  They're  ter- 
ribly real.  I  find  myself  saying  sharp,  mean  things 
nowadays,  and  I  believe  bad  things  about  people. 
Oh,  I  hate  them  so,"  she  declared,  stamping  her  foot 
with  little,  ineffectual  anger. 

"  Don't  hate  them,"  he  drawled  with  cheery  sym- 
pathy. "  You  don't  need  to.  Why,  you  have  a 
laugh  that  sounds  like  a  thousand  happy  birds  sing- 
ing in  the  sunshine.  I  heard  it  to-night,  and,  do  you 
know,  it's  been  echoing  in  my  ears  ever  since.  And 
you  have  a  smile  that's  like  that  same  sunshine  on  a 
blowing  wheat  field.  They'll  scare  away  the  tough- 
est goblin  that  ever " 

"  I  believed  bad  things  about  you,"  broke  in  the 
girl,  driven  to  confession  for  proof. 

He  said  nothing.  He  only  grinned  at  her  good- 
humoredly ;  and  slowly,  contagiously,  she  smiled  also. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  chuckling,  "  where  are  your  old 
goblins?" 

"  Gone,"  she  admitted  with  a  rueful  laugh. 
101 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


"  Of  course.  But  my  curiosity  isn't.  What  were 
you  doing  in  there  " — he  waved  his  hand  toward  the 
alcove — "  before  you  j  umped  out  at  me  ?  " 

"  I  was  reading." 

"What?"  he  persisted. 

For  reply  she  went  swiftly  into  the  alcove,  and 
bringing  back  the  red-covered  volume,  she  handed  it 
to  him.  He  glanced  at  it,  raising  his  eyebrows  as  he 
did  so,  and  turned  to  her  with  new  interest. 

"The  first  time?" 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  laughed.     "  Nearer  the  hundredth." 

"  Then  you've  seen  it,  of  course." 

"  The  play  ?  "  she  asked,  a  little  shadow  coming  on 
her  face.  "  No." 

"  You've  never  seen  it  ?  And  you've  read  it  nearly 
a  hundred  times.  How  does  that  happen?  " 

"  I  never  have  been  to  the  theater." 

"Oh."  He  hesitated.  "Your  father  doesn't 
object?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  he'd  mind,  not  if  he  could  afford 
it.  You  see,  after  all,  we  are  pretty  poor." 

She  said  it  with  simple  straightforwardness.  There 
was  no  evidence  of  false  pride.  It  was  merely  a 
statement  of  fact  and  an  explanation  of  the  question 
he  had  asked.  The  awkward  apology  for  his  in- 
quisitiveness  which  was  on  his  lips  was  not  spoken. 
No  apology  was  necessary. 

102 


PAEDNERS 


"  But  you  were  in  the  dark,"  he  drawled.  "  Now 
you  certainly  weren't  reading  in  the  dark  ?  I  declare, 
you  startled  me,"  he  added,  a  reminiscent  twinkle  in 
his  eyes. 

"  Oh,  no,"  contradicted  the  girl.  "  It  was  you 
who  frightened  me.  I  thought — I  was  foolish,  I  sup- 
pose— that  it  might  be  a  burglar." 

"  Oh,  I'm  sorry,"  he  said  penitently.  "  That  was 
because  I  tiptoed,  I  suppose.  I  didn't  want  to 
wake  up  the  whole  house.  Burglars  ?  "  he  repeat- 
ed, his  smile  disappearing  and  his  jaw  settling 
grimly.  "  That  reminds  me.  I'm  after  a  burglar 
myself." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  she  asked,  wide-eyed. 

"  Oh,  a  silk-hatted,  respectable  burglar,"  he  said 
with  a  rugged  scorn  in  his  voice,  which  startled  her 
by  its  sudden  transition  from  his  former  tone.  "  The 
kind  they  call,  on  East  here,  a  financier."  He  pulled 
his  watch  from  his  pocket  and  looked  at  it  calculating- 
ly.  "  I'm  going  to  talk  it  over  with  myself  for  a  few 
minutes.  Do  you  want  to  listen?  " 

"  Ought  I  to?  "  she  asked  doubtfully. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  don't  know  that  I  ought  to  tell 
you.  But  I'm  going  to.  Why  worry  about  it  ?  " 

There  was  a  pause,  during  which  he  lit  another 
cigarette,  smiling  whimsically. 

"  I  suppose  I  am  curious,"  she  admitted,  as  if  talk- 
103 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN" 


ing  to  herself.  "  I'd  really  like  to  hear  anything 
you  want  to  tell  me,  but  there  is  one  thing  that  puzzles 
me  right  now." 

"What's  that?" 

"  Why,  you  told  the  man  on  the  'phone  that  your 
name  was  Allen  something." 

"  Hush."  He  raised  his  finger  mysteriously,  grin- 
ning boyishly  as  he  did  so.  "  That's  part  of  the 
secret." 

"  Oh,  is  there  a  secret  ?  "  she  exclaimed  j  oyf ully. 

He  nodded  with  feigned  solemnity. 

"  Look  here,"  he  said  delightedly,  "  I'm  going  to 
take  you  into  partnership;  silent  partnership.  Do 
you  understand?  " 

"  I'll  be  silent,  if  that's  what  you  mean." 

"  That's  exactly  what  I  mean,"  he  said,  putting 
out  his  hand  to  her  impulsively.  "  Shake,  little 
pardner." 

They  shook  hands  soberly. 

"  You  see,"  he  began  at  once,  "  it's  like  this.  I'd 
planned  to  tell  Jones  about  it.  That's  why  I  came 
straight  here ;  but,  good  Lord,"  he  shook  his  head  and 
sighed  humorously,  "  I've  never  planned  anything 
right  in  my  whole  life.  When  the  time  comes  I  have 
to  fall  back  on  instinct.  And,  do  you  know,"  he 
added,  taking  out  a  fresh  cigarette,  "  instinct  tells 
me,  somehow,  that  Jones  mustn't  know." 

104 


PARDNERS 


Mabel  had  only  half  heard  the  words.  Her  eyes 
were  on  the  cigarette. 

"  Don't  you  smoke  too  many  cigarettes  ? "  she 
asked  with  motherly  solicitude. 

His  hand  faltered,  the  lighted  match  halfway  to 
the  tip. 

"  Very  likely,"  he  said  with  surprise.  "  You  don't 
like  them?" 

"  Oh,  I  wasn't  thinking  of  that.  I  was  thinking  of 
you." 

"  By  George !  "  exclaimed  Mathewson.  He  shook 
the  light  from  the  match,  and,  with  almost  the  same 
motion,  he  threw  the  cigarette  upon  the  ash  tray 
which  stood  at  his  elbow  upon  the  table. 

"  But  I  didn't  mean — "  began  Mabel,  instantly 
apologetic.  "  I  don't  want  to  spoil— 

"  That's  the  first  time,"  he  said  quietly,  looking  at 
her  so  steadily  that  her  glance  wavered  before  his, 
"  a  woman  has  really  thought  about  me  since  I've 
been  a  grown  man." 

"  But — "  she  began  again,  something  Batching  at 
her  throat,  something  which  came  from  his  speech 
and  from  his  look. 

"  It's  worth  it,  that's  all,"  said  Mathewson.  Then 
he  added  more  lightly:  "Besides  we're  pardners, 
aren't  we  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

8  105 


THE    YARDSTICK    MAX 


"  Pardners,"  he  repeated,  his  voice  lingering  over 
the  word. 

"  I — I  interrupted  your  story,"  Mabel  managed  to 
say.  "  I'm  sorry.  It  was  very  forward  of  me." 

"  Oh,  yes.  Well,  I  helped  a  man  two  years  ago ; 
saved  his  life,  he  said.  It  just  happened,  that's 
all.  I  was  an  orphan  and  a  wanderer.  He  adopted 
me." 

"  Oh,"  whispered  Mabel,  nodding. 

"  There,"  he  smiled  at  her.  "  You're  at  the  secret 
already.  Well,  he's  such  a  grand  old  chap ;  a  king, 
little  pardner,  a  king.  I've  never  amounted  to  much, 
but  I've  got  to  now — for  Daddy."  He  paused,  and 
his  mouth  hardened  as  if  with  pain.  "  He's  flat  on 
his  back,"  he  went  on  grimly,  "  fighting  for  his  life. 
That's  why  I've  got  to  do  it.  He  doesn't  know  what 
Carnahan  is  up  to." 

"  Carnahan  ?  "  She  repeated  the  name,  partly  to 
remember  it  the  better. 

"  He's  the  one  I  called  the  burglar.  Curse  him," 
he  added  with  sudden  fierceness. 

"Oh!" 

"  Oh,  I  mean  it,"  he  went  on,  through  clenched 
teeth.  "  Curse  him  and  all  his  kind.  There  are 
thousands  of  homes  out  in  our  country  that'll  be 
ruined  if  he  has  his  miserable  way ;  he  who  has  never 
seen  the  West  except  from  the  window  of  a  private 

106 


PARDNEKS 


car!  And  there's  Daddy,  honest  old  Daddy.  Ugh! 
it  makes  me  want  to  fight." 

In  his  wrath  he  had  forgotten  the  time,  place, 
everything.  His  voice  had  become  heavy,  and  his 
big  fists  were  doubled  menacingly.  The  girl  re- 
membered for  him.  She  glanced  fearfully  toward 
the  door. 

"  Hush,"  she  whispered. 

He  looked  up,  and  slowly  he  smiled  at  her,  his 
hands  relaxed,  and  the  tenseness  of  his  figure  seemed 
to  loosen. 

"  Thanks,  little  pardner,"  he  said,  his  voice  quieter. 
"  I  was  ranting  like  a  fool ;  but — it's  so  infernally 
wrong." 

"  What  is?  "  she  asked.  "  I  know  I'm  stupid,  but 
it  isn't  clear  somehow." 

It  seemed  as  if  her  very  voice  brought  the  gentler 
mood. 

"  Of  course  not,"  he  said  quietly,  wholly  repentant. 
"  I  was  very  thoughtless.  Sit  down,  and  I'll  tell  you 
about  it." 

He  drew  up  the  chair  for  her,  and  himself  half 
leaned,  half  sat  upon  the  table,  clasping  one  knee  in 
his  hands,  as  he  told  her  the  story. 

"  It's  a  railroad,  little  pardner,  the  railroad  Daddy 
built.  That  country  was  a  wilderness  when  he  began, 
but  he  knew  it  was  just  waiting — waiting  for  a  line  of 

107 


THE    YAEDSTICK   MAN 


rails,  some  engines,  and  some  cars — waiting  for  him 
to  bring  them  to  it.  He  began  at  the  ocean,  the 
water's  edge,  and  he  marched  straight  up  into  the 
hills,  cutting  his  way  through  the  forests,  carving 
through  the  solid  rock;  and,  wherever  he  led,  men 
followed  along  the  tracks  he  laid,  and  women  and 
children,  and  homes  and  work  and  happiness.  And 
then  out  into  the  prairie  which  was  calling  for  seed 
and  plow.  The  people  who  followed  him  helped  him, 
don't  you  see,  and  they  toiled  together,  and  built.  It 
was  a  hard,  uphill  fight,  little  pardner,  but  he  won 
at  last.  He  met  another  railroad  that  came  out  of 
the  East,  and  he  made  connections  with  it.  The  big 
task  was  done.  He  had  made  a  desolate  land  fruit- 
ful. Well,"  he  went  on,  his  face  glowing  with  enthu- 
siasm, "  that  was  years  ago.  Ever  since  then,  he  has 
been  building,  opening  up  new  country,  helping  new 
towns,  building,  building,  day  and  night.  He  has 
been  a  mighty  man,  little  pardner,  proud  in  his 
achievement,  and  satisfied  with  that  alone.  He  never 
has  cared  much  about  any  other  reward." 

The  girl  had  listened  breathlessly,  and  the  glow  in 
his  face  found  a  counterpart  in  hers. 

"  And  you  saved  his  life !  " 

He  shook  his  head  at  her  soberly. 

"  Think  about  him,  pardner.  I'm  not  worth  his 
boot  laces.  Well,"  he  went  on,  "  now,  when  he  is  old, 

108 


PARDXERS 


when  he  is  sick,  this  Eastern  gambler,  who  doesn't 
know  our  country  nor  care  about  it — except  for  the 
money  he  can  make  out  of  it,"  he  added  with  bitter 
scorn — "  slinks  around  in  the  dark  and  steals  our 
connections.  He's  not  a  builder.  It's  just  a  gam- 
bling game  with  him.  Why,  he's  holding  back  the 
news  now,"  he  added  contemptuously,  "  so  as  to  make 
more  money  out  of  the  drop  in  our  stock.  Oh —  "  his 
wrath  was  rising  again — "  I'd  like  to — "  He  caught 
himself  this  time,  and  smiled  a  deprecating  smile. 
"  Well,  I've  got  to  beat  him,  that's  all." 

"  But,  I  should  think,"  she  said  with  simple  direct- 
ness, "  that  if  he  has  stolen  your  connections  he  ought 
to  pay  for  new  ones." 

At  that  he  laughed,  and  yet  she  felt  there  was  no 
ridicule  in  his  laughter. 

"  Ought  to  pay !  "  he  repeated.  "  A  Daniel  come 
to  judgment,  pardner.  You  almost  make  me  believe 
in  women's  suffrage.  Of  course  he  ought  to  pay, 
but — "  He  stopped  sharply,  his  eyes  suddenly  be- 
coming veiled  and  dreamy,  and  then  brightening  with 
quick  inspiration.  "  By  George,"  he  muttered. 
"  Perhaps — it's  a  long  chance — but,"  he  added 
ecstatically,  bringing  one  big  fist  resoundingly  into 
the  palm  of  tis  other  hand,  "  it  would  be  beauti- 
ful." 

"  What  would  be  beautiful?  " 
109 


THE    YAEDSTICK   MAN 


"  Why,  to  make  him  pay." 

He  stood  before  her  now,  looking  down  at  her. 

"  Little  pardner,"  he  said,  and  she  became  very 
proud  at  his  words,  "  most  people  would  have  called 
me  a  fool  for  talking  to  you  about  this.  Most 
people !  "  he  repeated  with  mild  derision.  "  How  wise 
most  people  are !  " 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  asked  eagerly. 

"  Oh,  an  idea,  that's  all.  You  gave  it  to  me  and — 
you  don't  know  what  it  is,"  he  added  teasingly. 

"  I  really  think  you  might  tell  me.  No,  you 
mustn't,"  she  said  suddenly.  "  You  must  go.  A  half 
hour,  you  said."  She  shook  her  head  at  him  reprov- 
ingly. "  Why,  you're  late  already.  I  forgot  all 
about  it." 

"  So  did  I." 

"  You  should  keep  your  appointments,"  she  said 
with  an  amusing  severity.  "  It's  very  important. 
And  to  keep  him  up  at  this  time  of  night !  Where  is 
your  hat?  " 

"  Downstairs." 

"  Then  that's  all  right,  isn't  it  ?  But  how  are  you 
going  to  get  in  when  you  come  back  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  haven't  figured  that  out  yet.  I'll  be  back 
for  breakfast,  all  right." 

"  They  will  find  out,  and  they  will  talk  and  be  un- 
pleasant." 

110 


"  I  don't  mind  it  if  they  do." 

"  I  do." 

She  turned  from  him  and  rummaged  in  one  of  the 
drawers  of  the  big  table,  returning  with  a  pair  of 
keys  on  a  ring. 

"  There.  This  is  for  the  outside  door  and  this  for 
the  inside." 

He  took  the  keys  from  her  hands  slowly. 

"  You're  a  brick,  little  pardner." 

But  she  would  not  let  him  delay. 

"  Now  you  must  hurry,"  she  urged.  "  You're 
late,  you  know,  and  oh — "  she  added  in  a  whisper  as 
they  reached  the  door — "  won't  you  please  smoke? 
I'd  really  rather  you  would." 

"  All  right,  pardner,"  he  agreed,  lowering  his  voice 
also,  so  that  they  seemed  like  two  young  culprits 
there  on  the  edge  of  the  dark  hallway.  Then  he  put 
out  his  hand. 

"  Good  night." 

Somehow,  when  the  slender  hand  was  laid  inside  his 
big  one,  it  seemed  natural  to  carry  it  very  gently  to 
his  lips. 

"  Oh,"  she  whispered.     "  Why  did  you  do  that?  " 

"  You're  a  woman  as  well  as  a  pardner.  No,"  he 
added,  "  that  isn't  all.  I  just  wanted  to." 

She  heard  his  tread  on  the  stairway  below  and  in 
the  hall,  and  then  the  door  as  it  closed  gently  behind 

111 


THE    YARDSTICK    MAX 


him.  Still  she  stood  there,  just  as  he  had  left  her. 
She  was  looking  down  at  her  hand.  That  odd,  inde- 
finable sensation  was  still  tingling  from  the  spot  he 
had  touched  with  his  lips,  tingling  to  the  uttermost 
parts  of  her  body.  It  was  very  strange. 


CHAPTER    VII 

MATHEWSON    DISCOVERS   SOMETHING   IN   A 
NEWSPAPER 

MATHEWSON  was  late  the  next  morning.  He 
came  down  just  in  time  to  meet  Jones  and  the 
professor  as  they  were  leaving  the  dining  room. 
Trowbridge  shook  hands  with  him  frigidly,  while 
Jones,  unwittingly  discourteous,  stared  at  the  trans- 
formation in  his  appearance.  It  was  indeed  a  very 
different  Mathewson  who  now  blocked  their  way  in 
the  narrow  hall,  and  who  half  apologized  for  his 
laziness. 

The  man  he  had  been  the  night  before,  almost 
shabby  in  unpressed,  travel-worn  clothes,  was  now  a 
clean-shaven,  well-groomed  person.  The  tired  look 
had  gone  from  his  eyes.  They  were  keen  and  clear. 
The  gaunt  lines  which  the  rougher  clothing  had  ac- 
centuated had  vanished,  and  a  more  exuberant, 
rugged  strength  had  taken  their  place.  He  was  un- 
deniably good-looking  as  he  lolled  against  the  wall, 
talking  in  his  leisurely  drawl,  and  he  had  an  inde- 
finable air  of  distinction  which  bothered  Jones.  In- 
deed, the  change  in  appearance,  which  one  would  have 

113 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


thought  might  have  pleased  him,  as  a  matter  of  pride 
in  his  guest,  raised  an  added  hostility  in  which  was 
keen  disappointment.  It  only  increased  the  irrita- 
tion he  had  felt  and  shown  at  Mathewson's  tardiness 
at  the  breakfast  table.  Jones  had  resented  the  idea  of 
this  self-invited  guest  lazing  comfortably  upstairs, 
while  he,  Jones,  must  be  up  and  at  work.  He  there- 
fore cut  short  Mathewson's  remarks  rather  curtly. 

"  The  professor  is  coming  downtown  with  me.  I 
really  haven't  time  to  talk  with  him  here.  I'm  very 
busy,  Mathewson,"  he  said,  furnishing  what  seemed 
unnecessary  information. 

"  Then  don't  let  me  keep  you,"  drawled  Mathew- 
son, with  a  quizzical  look  which  Jones  interpreted  as 
insolent.  "  To  tell  you  the  truth  I'm  hungry." 

They  started  on. 

"  Oh,  Mathewson,"  called  Jones  from  down  the 
hall.  He  was  conscious  of  having  seemed  to  be  im- 
polite, and  he  meant  to  be  punctilious  in  such  things. 
"  Will  you  come  down  later  ?  " 

It  occurred  to  him  that  he  would  like  to  show 
Mathewson  his  office.  He  was  rather  proud  of  his 
office. 

"  I'll  see,  but  I'm  afraid  not.  You  know,"  finished 
the  drawling  reply  from  the  doorway  of  the  dining 
room,  "  I'm  going  to  be  busy,  too." 

Jones  slammed  the  door  after  him,  and  they  passed 
114 


MATHEWSON    DISCOVEKS    SOMETHING 

the  corner  before  the  angry  spots  faded  from  his 
cheeks.  The  fellow  was  unbearable.  He  had  a  way 
of  saying  things  which  gave  Jones  a  galling  sense  of 
inferiority.  The  very  absurdity  of  the  notion  riled 
him  beyond  words.  He  was  a  success,  Mathewson  a 
failure ;  and  yet — he  was  unable,  never  had  been  able, 
back  in  their  student  days,  to  meet  what  he  conceived 
to  be  Mathewson's  little  flings  with  equanimity.  He 
never  had  been  able  to  answer  him  successfully  either 
— a  fact  which  stung  his  pride  sorely.  Mathewson 
always  had  left  him  helplessly  annoyed,  even  as  he 
was  now,  with  the  fellow,  unasked,  perfectly  at  home 
in  his,  Jones's,  house.  How  long  would  he  be  there? 
Well,  if  he  stayed  he  would  see  Jones's  triumph. 
There  was  balm  in  that  thought.  Strangely  enough, 
Jones,  the  success,  acutely  desired  that  Mathewson, 
the  failure,  should  see  and  acknowledge  that  triumph. 

Yes,  the  prospect  was  not  wholly  bad,  after  all. 
He  found  a  certain  amount  of  satisfaction,  moreover, 
in  railing  at  Mathewson  to  the  professor  as  they 
walked  down  to  the  subway  station.  And  since  Trow- 
bridge  readily  agreed,  Jones's  self-satisfaction  was 
somewhat  placated  by  the  time  they  were  well  on 
their  way  downtown. 

Meanwhile  Mathewson,  oblivious  of  having  said 
anything  to  raise  such  a  storm  in  his  host's  mind, 
had  seated  himself  at  Mrs.  Jones's  right  and  was 

115 


THE    YARDSTICK    MAN 


busy  with  the  breakfast  which  the  butler  had  brought 
him.  After  a  few  commonplace  greetings  silence  fell 
upon  them.  It  continued  for  so  long  an  interval  that 
Mathewson  felt  it,  and,  looking  up,  he  surprised  Mrs. 
Jones's  rather  dreamy  scrutiny.  She  stirred  slightly 
as  he  looked  up. 

"  Wouldn't  you  like  to  look  at  the  paper?  "  she 
asked  swiftly,  to  cover  a  little  inward  confusion. 

Clothes  always  make  a  difference  with  a  woman. 
Her  quick  eyes  had  seen,  the  night  before,  every 
wrinkle  in  his  travel-stained  coat,  the  bagging  of  his 
trousers  at  the  knee,  the  dark  stubble  on  his  un- 
shaven face,  even  the  worn  heels  and  the  stubbed,  un- 
blacked  toes  of  his  boots.  That  was  a  matter  of 
habit.  She  had,  in  a  measure,  overlooked  them  of 
course,  because  she  was  glad  to  see  him,  but  she  had 
mentioned  them  to  her  husband  after  they  had  gone 
upstairs.  And  although  she  had,  as  always,  argued 
against  the  deductions  which  Jones  had  drawn,  she 
had  been  somewhat  ashamed  of  Mathewson,  and  to  a 
degree  annoyed  at  him  for  giving  Jones  so  good  an 
opportunity  to  prove  his  point.  The  transformation 
of  the  morning,  therefore,  carried  her  easily  to  the 
other  extreme.  If  he  had  appeared  last  night  as  now 
she  would  have  taken  it  for  granted.  It  would  have 
made  no  particular  impression  on  her.  But  the  con- 
trast brought  with  it  a  rush  of  admiration  for  him, 

116 


MATHEWSON    DISCOVERS    SOMETHING 

which  was  out  of  all  proportion  with  the  mere  ques- 
tion of  appearance.  Of  course,  she  was  not  conscious 
that  mere  clothes  had  anything  whatever  to  do  with 
it.  She  would  have  denied  the  imputation  with  right- 
eous scorn.  After  all,  is  there  not  something  occult, 
almost  supernatural,  in  the  effect  of  clothes  upon 
woman  ? 

"  Oh,  no,"  responded  Mathewson,  glancing  across, 
with  outward  carelessness  but  with  inward  longing, 
at  the  paper  which  lay  by  Jones's  place. 

"  You  know  you  want  to  read  it,"  said  Mrs.  Jones 
teasingly. 

"  Why  should  I  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  Only  men  always  do.  It's  as 
much  a  part  of  Edward's  breakfast  as  his  coffee." 

There  was  something  like  a  challenge  in  her  tone. 

"  Oh,  well,  of  course,"  he  met  it  at  once,  "  if  you 
insist." 

"  Higgins,"  said  Mrs.  Jones  peremptorily,  "  hand 
Mr.  Mathewson  the  paper." 

Mathewson  spread  it  out  with  comfortable  leisure- 
liness  at  his  plate  and  scanned  its  pages.  None  of 
the  eagerness  which  he  felt  showed  in  his  manner,  nor 
in  the  look  of  momentary  relief  which  followed  his 
failure  to  find  the  news  which  he  had  half  feared,  half 
hoped  for ;  feared,  because  he  was  scarcely  ready,  and 
hoped  for,  because  it  would  end  the  suspense. 

117 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


"  You're  terribly  disappointing,"  declared  Mrs. 
Jones,  after  an  interval. 

"  Disappointing?  "  he  repeated  with  assumed  in- 
nocence. "  Why  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  think  you  would  take  it,"  she  said  petu- 
lantly. 

"  Why,  you  forced  it  on  me,"  he  retorted.  "  You 
told  me  the  customs  of  the  household." 

"  But  I  thought  you  would  have  better  manners," 
declared  Mrs.  Jones. 

"  And,  besides,"  continued  Mathewson,  ignoring 
her  remark,  "  I  was  sure  that  you  didn't  wish  me  to 
read  it." 

"  Roger,  you're  impossible." 

"  I  knew  all  the  time  that  you  really  wished  to 
read  it  yourself.  Higgins,  my  friend,"  he  added, 
mocking  Mrs.  Jones's  previous  tone,  "  hand  Mrs. 
Jones  the  paper." 

"  Roger ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Jones,  and  then  was 
silent,  while  the  butler  stiffly  carried  out  his  bidding. 

As  soon  as  the  butler  had  disappeared  Mrs.  Jones 
burst  into  the  laughter  which  she  had  repressed. 

"  Oh,  Roger,  you're  incorrigible,"  she  cried. 
"  What  will  he  think  of  us?  " 

"  He?  Do  you  folks  worry  about  what  your  serv- 
ants think  about  you?  That  must  be  terrible."  He 
shook  his  head  with  whimsical  solemnity. 

118 


MATHEW80N    DISCOVERS    SOMETHING 

"  Why,  no,  of  course  not.  That  is — of  course  one 
has  to  be  careful.  They  talk  so  much." 

"  I  suppose  so,"  he  agreed,  his  long  face  still  sober. 
"  Everybody  has  a  certain  amount  of  talk  in  his  sys- 
tem. I  declare,  if  I  had  to  spend  half  my  time  as 
solemn  and  silent  as  he  is,  I  reckon  I'd  have  to  let 
loose  when  I  got  outside." 

"  But  you  called  him  *  my  friend,' "  said  Mrs. 
Jones  reprovingly.  "  You  mustn't  do  that,  Roger. 
That  sort  of  thing  hurts  discipline." 

"Well,  he  is,  isn't  he?  I  say  that  any  chap  who 
brings  me  as  good  coffee  as  this  is  a  friend  of  mine. 
I'd  be  sure  of  it  if  he'd  only  smile.  Say,  Dot,  does 
he  ever  smile?  " 

"  He  isn't  supposed  to,"  said  Mrs.  Jones,  smiling 
herself  at  the  droll  seriousness  of  his  look. 

"  Whew,  but  I'd  hate  to  work  for  you." 

"  I'd  hate  to  have  you,"  retorted  Mrs.  Jones, 
laughing  also  and  rising.  Her  eyes  were  bright  as 
she  flung  the  paper  upon  the  table  beside  him. 
"  There,  you'll  have  to  have  it  now.  I  can't  sit  here 
and  fight  with  you  all  the  morning.  But  it  h  good 
to  have  you  around,  Roger,"  she  added  suddenly. 
"  Somehow  I'm  ten  years  younger  this  morning." 

"  Then  you  feel  as  young  as  you  look." 

"  You  don't  mean  a  word  of  that." 

"  Of  course  not.     Not  a  word." 
119 


THE    YAEDSTICK    MAN 


He  had  picked  up  the  paper  and  was  studying  it 
now  with  twinkling  eyes.  She  stood  poised  on  one 
foot,  watching  him  in  the  few  seconds'  pause. 

"  You're  not  a  bit  nice,  Roger  Mathewson." 

"  No,"  he  agreed,  chuckling  but  not  looking  up, 
"  but  maybe  I'll  improve." 

She  waited  a  half  minute,  and  then,  seeing  that 
he  did  not  raise  his  eyes,  she  turned  smiling  and  left 
the  room. 

Shortly  Mathewson,  having  finished  his  coffee, 
climbed  the  stairs  to  the  library,  the  paper  under  his 
arm.  He  was  aiming  straight  for  the  telephone,  when 
opposite  the  alcove  he  stopped  short. 

"  Oh,  hello,"  he  cried.  Then  the  corners  of  his 
mouth  wrinkling  with  wry  humor,  he  added :  "  I  might 
have  known  it." 

Mabel  looked  up  shyly  from  her  writing. 

"  Might  have  known  what?  "  she  asked,  smiling. 

"  Oh,  that  you  would  be  in  there,"  he  replied,  sink- 
ing into  the  big  armchair  by  the  table  and  unfolding 
his  paper.  "  You're  always  there  when  I  want  to 
telephone." 

The  girl  started  to  her  feet  swiftly. 

"  I'll  go  out,"  she  said. 

"  No."  He  realized  his  mistake,  and  was  sorry  for 
it.  She  hesitated  before  his  pleading  gesture,  and  he 
felt  better  instantly.  "  I'm  going  to  smoke — you 

120 


MATHEWSON   DISCOVERS    SOMETHING 

know  you  told  me  to — and  read  the  paper  and  talk 
to  you  a  little — if  you'll  let  me,"  he  added  humbly. 

"  Why,  yes,  of  course,  but " 

"  You  took  me  too  seriously,"  he  said  gently. 
"  I'm  in  no  hurry  to  telephone,  and  if  I  were  why 
should  your  being  here  stop  me?  We're  pardners, 
aren't  we  ?  " 

"  Then  you — you  wish  me  to  stay  ?  " 

"  Of  course,"  he  said,  trying  to  be  casual,  and  with 
considerable  awkwardness  returning  to  his  paper. 

There  was  a  feeling  of  real  constraint  between  them 
that  morning.  She  felt  it  as  she  sat  down  again  at 
the  desk  and  attempted  to  go  on  with  her  work. 
Somehow  she  knew,  all  the  time  that  she  was  forcing 
the  stubborn  pen  across  the  paper  in  a  rigorous  at- 
tempt to  do  her  duty,  that  she  was  listening  to  his 
every  movement.  She  was  almost  painfully  conscious 
of  his  presence,  and  yet  glad,  in  a  strange  kind  of  a 
way,  a  way  she  could  not  understand,  that  he  was 
there.  The  tips  of  her  ears  burned  at  the  sudden 
thought  that  he  might  be  looking  at  her,  and  she  was 
momentarily  conscious  of  herself  for  nearly  the  first 
time  in  her  life. 

He  felt  it,  too,  and  he  grinned  characteristically 
at  his  own  embarrassment.     It  amused  and  interested 
him  at  first  as  something  novel.     He  soon  tired  of  it, 
however,  and  looked  over  his  paper  at  her. 
9  121 


THE    YAEDSTICK   MAX 


"  Well,  there's  no  news  this  morning,  little  pard- 
ner,"  he  volunteered.  He  was  surprised  to  find  how 
eager  he  really  was  to  talk  with  her  about  it. 

"  You  mean  about — about  what  we  were  talking 
of  last  night?"  she  asked,  turning  with  quick  in- 
terest. 

"  Yes.     Our  burglar  hasn't  made  any  move  yet." 

The  girl  hesitated  between  impulse  and  that  odd 
restraint  which  held  her  back. 

"  I  know  it's  inquisitive  of  me,"  she  broke  out  at 
last,  "  but  I  just  can't  help  it.  I'm  terribly  curious. 
Did  anything  happen  last  night  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  a  good  deal,"  he  nodded  at  her  over  the 
edge  of  the  paper  with  an  air  of  profound  secrecy. 

"  You  mustn't  tell  me  about  it,"  said  the  girl 
decisively. 

"  But  I'd  like " 

"  I  shouldn't  half  understand,  and  then,  besides, 
somebody  might  overhear." 

Her  childlike  faith  that  he  would  wish  to  tell  her 
was  very  pleasant  to  him. 

"  Of  course,"  he  said  at  once,  meeting  her  on  her 
own  ground,  "  we  must  be  very  careful."  He  em- 
phasized the  "  we."  It  seemed  delightfully  intimate. 
"  For  that  reason  perhaps  you're  right,"  he  added 
with  a  disappointment  which  was  more  real  than 
feigned. 


MATHEWSOX    DISCOVERS    SOMETHING 

"  But  it's  all  right,  isn't  it  ?  "  she  asked  eagerly. 
"  You're  going  to  win,  aren't  you  ?  You're  going  to 
beat  him,  of  course." 

"  Well,  you  see,"  he  replied,  smiling  at  her  un- 
questioning belief  in  his  success,  "  it  isn't  quite  as 
easy  as  that.  No,  little  pardner,  it's  going  to  be  a 
fight,  and  the  odds  are  against  us ;  but  we've  a  bare 
chance  now,  and  that's  more  than  we  had  before  I 
talked  with  you  last  night." 

She  ignored  his  reference  to  her.  It  is  doubtful 
whether  she  noticed  it. 

"  A  fight !  "  she  repeated,  sobered  by  the  word. 

"  Yes,  a  big  one."  His  gray  eyes  glinted  with  the 
light  of  battle  which  had  sprung  into  them.  "Of 
course  he  doesn't  know  it  yet,"  he  added.  "  That's 
the  only  thing  which  saves  us  at  all,  which  gives  us 
what  little  chance  we  have." 

"  Somehow,"  mused  the  girl,  "  it  doesn't  seem 
right." 

"  No,"  he  agreed  readily,  "  it  isn't." 

"  Is  it  necessary  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  think  so,"  he  said  with  quick  seriousness.  "  You 
see  it's  like  this,  little  pardner,"  he  went  on:  "If 
there's  a  system  which  gives  his  kind  of  a  man,  the 
wrong  kind  of  a  man,  a  chance  to  do  things  that 
aren't  square  or  just — I  mean  square  and  just  in  a 
big  sense,  not  because  the  law  is  this  way  or  that— 

123 


why,  then,  a  man  who  wants  a  square  deal  and  justice 
must  get  into  that  system  and  beat  him  on  his  own 
ground.  You've  either  got  to  play  according  to  the 
rules  of  the  game  or  you've  got  to  quit,  that's  all." 

"  Of  course  you  oughtn't  to  do  that." 

"Do  what?" 

"  Quit,"  she  replied,  looking  across  at  him  with  a 
reflection  in  her  eyes  of  the  fighting  light  which  had 
been  in  his.  "  You  must  win — for  his  sake." 

"  Yes,  that's  it.  There  are  a  whole  lot  of  things 
that  aren't  right,  but  I  reckon  we  can  make  them 
nearer  right  by  going  into  them  than  by  staying  out 
of  them.  I  know,"  he  added  with  quick  depression, 
"  because  I've  always  stayed  out  of  them  until  now." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  *  staying  out  of  them  ?  ' 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  he  said,  slowly  facing  her, 
but  his  eyes  regretfully  gazing  on  past  her  into  the 
years  which  had  gone  by.  "  I've  been  pretty  use- 
less, I  guess." 

"  Useless  ?  "  she  repeated. 

It  seemed  only  an  echo  of  things  she  had  heard 
the  night  before  from  the  others.  The  very  fact  that 
he  so  readily  admitted  what  they  had  said  suddenly 
stiffened  the  girl's  doubt  of  it,  and  unreasonably  her 
faith  in  him. 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  it's  true  enough,"  he  said,  with  a  dissatisfied 


MATHEWSON    DISCOVERS    SOMETHING 

sigh.  "  I've  just  been  playing  around  ever  since  I 
left  college.  I  did  it  there,  for  that  matter.  I've 
just  lived  a  day  to  day  kind  of  a  life  as  I  went  along, 
not  meaning  much  to  anybody,  not  even  to  myself. 
I've  mined  it,  and  I've  ranched  it,  and  I've  run  a  rail- 
road station,  and  I've  cut  timber,  and — a  whole  lot 
of  other  things.  And  what's  the  result  ?  I  can  throw 
a  lasso,  and  I  can  recognize  the  age  of  a  tree  when  I 
see  it,  and  I  know  the  telegraph  code,  and  I  can 
prospect  intelligently  for  gold  that  isn't  there  as 
well  as  the  next  one.  My  mind's  a  bunch  of  odds 
and  ends,  filled  with  the  fringes  of  information.  I've 
just  knocked  around  and  had  a  good  time  and  known 
folks,  all  kinds  of  folks.  But  then,"  he  added,  shrug- 
ging his  shoulders  and  picking  up  the  paper,  a  bit 
troubled  at  having  talked  so  much  of  himself,  "  I've 
been  getting  ashamed  of  myself  for  the  last  year  or 
two,  and  I  guess  that's  a  good  sign." 

He  stared  at  the  print  before  him,  wondering  at 
himself.  Why  had  he  suddenly  become  serious,  and 
why  had  he  let  loose  this  outburst?  It  was  a  new 
experience  for  him.  Slowly  it  dawned  upon  him  that 
the  girl  who  sat  peering  thoughtfully  at  him  was 
responsible.  He  never  had  had  anybody  to  talk  to 
before — not  in  this  way — and  somehow  it  was  easy 
to  talk  to  her.  Then  all  at  once  an  odd  sensation, 
something  that  was  almost  fear,  shot  through  him, 

125 


THE    YARDSTICK    MAN 


fear  lest  he  should  lose  her  sympathy,  fear  lest  she 
should  take  him  at  his  own  valuation. 

"  Oh,  well,  pardner,"  he  said,  "  we're  going  to  buck 
up  now,  aren't  we  ?  " 

He  smiled  across  at  her,  but  he  felt  his  heart  beat- 
ing away  with  unusual  rapidity  as  he  waited  for  her 
reply.  It  was  all  very  strange,  this  gentle  turmoil 
within,  and  yet  he  hesitated  to  check  it. 

"  I  think,"  said  the  girl  slowly,  "  that  you  must 
have  had  a  splendid  life;  so  adventurous,  so  full  of 
color  and  action.  It  seems  like  a  real  man's  life  to 
me,  the  only  kind  that  makes  me  sorry  sometimes  that 
I  am  a  girl." 

He  showed  in  his  look  that  he  was  surprised  and 
pleased,  even  though  he  felt  that  he  had  no  right  to 
be  pleased.  Everyone  likes  approval,  whether  it's 
deserved  or  not.  And  to  have  it  from  her,  at  that 
moment — he  could  have  gone  down  on  his  knees  in 
gratitude  to  her. 

"  You've  probably  saved  other  people's  lives,  too," 
the  girl  went  on  musingly,  "  and  done  a  host  of  fine, 
big  things.  I  wish  you'd  tell  me  about  it  some  time." 

His  sense  of  proportion  obtruded  itself  upon  him 
then,  and  his  sense  of  humor,  synonymous  perhaps. 

"  Oh,  Lord,  no,"  he  broke  in  chuckling.  "  There's 
nothing  heroic  about  me,  little  pardner.  There  isn't 
a  single  thing  to  tell,  and  don't  you  get  it  into  your 

126 


MATHEWSON    DISCOVERS    SOMETHING 

head  that  there  is,"  he  added  kindly.  "  Heigho,"  he 
went  on,  determinedly  clutching  the  paper.  "  The 
only  thing  I've  ever  done  is  to  get  into  other  peo- 
ple's way.  I'm  keeping  you  from  doing  your  work 
now." 

He  forced  himself  to  read  a  few  paragraphs,  but 
he  found  it  difficult.  He  knew  when  she  turned,  with 
real  inward  disappointment,  back  to  the  desk  again. 
He  heard  every  scratch  of  her  pen.  He  tried  to 
scoff  at  himself,  and  he  turned  the  paper  with  un- 
necessary vigor,  soothed  momentarily  by  the  rattling 
of  the  sheets.  Then  something  caught  his  eye,  and 
he  read  eagerly.  It  was  merely  a  critic's  comment 
on  an  opening  at  the  theater  the  night  before,  but 
he  read  it  with  swift  interest.  A  traveling  English 
company,  which  had  made  something  of  a  sensation 
in  New  York  that  year,  was  playing  "  As  You  Like 
It."  In  the  main,  it  was  clear  from  the  criticism,  the 
performance  was  a  good  one. 

"  Say,"  he  exclaimed  impulsively  as  he  finished. 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  girl,  quickly  enough  to  prove 
that  her  mind  as  well  had  not  been  concentrated  upon 
its  task. 

"  You  know  what  you  were  reading  last  night. 
They're  playing  it  down  at  Daly's.  Would  you  like 
to  see  it?  By  George,  we'll  go  to-night.  What  do 
you  say,  little  pardner?  " 

127 


THE    YAKDSTICK    MAN 


Her  eyes  shone  at  the  thought,  but  she  shook  her 
head  doubtfully. 

"  I  don't  believe  I  can,"  she  began.  "  You 
see " 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  can,"  he  broke  in  with  enthusiasm. 
"  You  must." 

"  I  think  Mrs.  Jones  wouldn't  like  it." 

"  She  needn't  know.  I'll  go  out  after  dinner,  and 
then  a  little  while  afterwards  you  can  slip  out,  and 
we'll  meet  at  the  corner.  We'll  fool  them  beauti- 
fully," he  added  boyishly. 

The  very  surreptitiousness  of  the  idea  appealed  to 
the  girl's  imagination.  More  than  that,  she  wanted 
to  go,  wanted  to  go  with  all  her  heart. 

"  But  that  would  be  deceiving  them,"  she  objected 
rather  weakly. 

"  Not  at  all,"  he  argued.  "  Just  not  letting  them 
know  isn't  deceiving.  It  would  be  a  great  lark,  I 
think,  and  then — by  George — "  Another  idea 
flashed  into  his  mind.  "  I  could —  Say,  would  you 
mind  going  in  the  top  gallery  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  it,"  replied  the  girl. 
"  I  wonder,"  she  mused  after  a  moment,  "  if  it  would 
be  wrong." 

"Wrong?"  He  laughed  delightedly.  "  Of  course 
not.  It's  all  settled." 

**  I  would  like  to  go,"  she  said,  half  to  herself. 
128 


MATHEWSON    DISCOVERS    SOMETHING 

"  It's  all  settled,  I  tell  you,"  he  repeated.  "  Now 
I'm  going  to  telephone " 

He  did  not,  however.  Instead,  he  dropped  back 
into  the  chair  from  which  he  had  half  risen,  and 
studied  the  paper  with  unusual  attention.  The  girl 
swung  about  to  the  desk  and  became  suddenly  very 
busy.  Mrs.  Jones  mounted  the  last  stair  and  came 
hurrying  down  the  hall. 

It  is  remarkable  what  intimacy  the  smallest  secret 
brings.  Both  of  them,  as  they  sat  there,  seemingly 
intent  upon  other  things,  were  like  two  children  en- 
joying to  the  full  the  sense  of  subtle  understanding, 
and  the  realization  that  this  third  person  did  not 
know. . 

"  Oh,  you're  there,  are  you?  "  cried  Mrs.  Jones. 

Mathewson  put  down  his  paper  and  laughed  aloud. 
His  laughter  was  not  aimed  at  her  nor  at  anyone 
or  anything  else  in  particular.  He  felt  like  laugh- 
ing, that  was  all.  His  heart,  always  youthful,  was 
unusually  light. 

Mrs.  Jones,  womanlike  looking  for  a  surface  cause, 
glanced  suspiciously  at  Mabel's  back.  The  girl  bent 
busily  over  the  desk.  Mathewson  saw  the  look  and 
understood. 

"  Dot,"  he  drawled  with  quick  drollery,  "  I'll  swear 
to  it  on  a  stack  of  Bibles." 

"  Swear  to  what?  "  demanded  Mrs.  Jones. 
129 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


"  That  I'm  here,"  he  responded,  and  laughed 
again,  the  very  echo  of  his  previous  laughter.  And 
Mrs.  Jones,  accepting  things  readily  as  they  seemed 
to  be,  joined  in  his  laughter  over  his  silly  remark, 
and  forgot  her  suspicions,  which  was  precisely  what 
he  wished  her  to  do. 

"  You're  so  absurd,  Roger." 

"  I  know  it,"  he  rejoined.  "  A  man  who  is  absurd 
furnishes  amusement  to  his  associates.  That  absolves 
him  from  all  other  care  or  responsibility.  It's  the 
best  job  I  know." 

He  spoke  in  an  airy,  careless  tone,  and  Mabel,  lis- 
tening, wrinkled  her  eyebrows  wonderingly.  He  was 
so  different  when  he  talked  with  Mrs.  Jones ;  so  much 
freer,  it  seemed  to  her.  Of  course  they  had  known 
each  other  a  long  while,  the  girl  thought  with  a  little 
unacknowledged  sigh. 

"  Well,  absurd  as  you  are,"  declared  Mrs.  Jones, 
"  I'm  going  to  take  you  to  ride  this  morning.  The 
car  is  outside  waiting  for  us  now.  I  meant  to  tell 
you  about  it  at  breakfast,  and  I  absolutely  forgot  all 
about  it." 

Mathewson  hesitated  only  for  a  second. 

"  Good.  I'm  game  for  anything  that  means  tak- 
ing it  easy.  I  don't  have  to  drive,  do  I  ?  " 

"  Roger  Mathewson,"  retorted  Mrs.  Jones,  "  if  you 
think  that  I'd  risk  my  bones  in  a  car  which  you  drove, 

130 


MATHEWSON   DISCOVERS    SOMETHING 

you're  very  much  mistaken.  There  now !  "  she  added, 
jerking  her  head  at  him  gayly.  "  I  think  that  will 
keep  you  from  being  impudent  for  a  minute  or  two. 
I'm  going  upstairs  now  to  get  my  things  on.  I'll 
only  be  a  minute,  and  be  sure  that  you're  ready  when 
I  come  down." 

"  I'm  ready  now,"  he  drawled,  but  she  only  dimly 
heard  him,  for  she  had  vanished  through  the  door 
before  the  words  were  more  than  half  spoken,  and 
was  already  part  way  up  the  stairs. 

Mathewson  looked  after  her,  then  around  at  the 
girl. 

"No,  I'm  not,"  he  added  confidentially.  "I've 
got  to  'phone." 

Mabel  listened,  perforce,  to  the  fragments  of  his 
conversation  over  the  telephone.  All  the  time  she  felt 
guilty,  almost  like  an  eavesdropper.  But  what  could 
she  do  ?  He  had  given  her  no  time  to  leave  the  room. 
The  things  she  heard  made  her  uneasy  as  well.  It 
was  Mr.  Bruning  again,  and  he  was  telling  that  gen- 
tleman that  he  ought  to  see  "  As  You  Like  It "  at 
Daly's  that  evening,  and  that  the  best  seats  were  in 
the  top  gallery.  Yes,  he  was  actually  inviting  Mr. 
Bruning  to  go  with  him,  and  it  was  clear  that  Mr. 
Bruning  had  accepted  the  invitation.  Had  he 
changed  his  mind  then?  Did  he  think  she  really  had 
refused  to  go?  All  her  doubts  regarding  the  pro- 

131 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


priety  of  it  and  the  right  of  it  vanished  now.  She 
longed  to  go  with  desperate  longing.  She  missed  the 
last  few  words  he  spoke,  for  she  was  visualizing  that 
theater  of  her  dreams  and  hearing  the  words  she 
knew  so  well,  spoken  by  real  actors  and  actresses. 

The  clicking  of  the  receiver  as  he  hung  it  up 
brought  her  to  herself.  She  rose  to  her  feet,  half 
eager,  half  troubled. 

"  I  couldn't  help  hearing,"  she  said  as  he  came 
down  the  room.  "  You  won't  want  me  to  go  then, 
will  you?  " 

Mathewson  stopped  and  looked  down  into  the  wist- 
ful big  eyes.  A  strange,  delightful  thrill,  which 
tingled  to  the  very  tips  of  his  long  fingers,  shook  him. 
He  smothered  it  almost  instantly,  but  it  left  its  im- 
pression upon  him.  He  was  trembling  from  it,  even 
two  or  three  minutes  later. 

"  Why,"  he  said,  stammering  a  little,  "  that's  all 
settled.  Of  course  you're  going.  I  just  asked  Mr. 
Bruning  because — because — well,  you  see,  we  needed 
a  chaperon,"  he  added  with  a  forced  grin. 

<;  But " 

"  He's  a  fine  old  chap,  little  pardner,"  broke  in 
Mathewson,  more  at  his  ease.  "  You'll  like  him  a  lot. 
Then,  to  tell  the  truth,"  he  went  on,  lowering  his 
voice,  "  I  want  to  talk  to  him,  don't  you  understand  ? 
It'll  be  a  good  chance.  You  won't  mind,  will  you  ?  " 

132 


MATHEWSON    DISCOVERS    SOMETHING 

he  added,  realizing  too  late  that  Mr.  Bruning's  pres- 
ence might  seem  like  an  intrusion  to  the  girl. 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  said  honestly. 

"  Good.  Then  it's  all  right.  We'll  have  a  bully 
time.  Only,"  he  added,  lifting  his  finger  to  his  lips, 
"  mum's  the  word." 

Almost  as  if  to  emphasize  his  warning  phrase,  a 
door  slammed  above  and  quick  footsteps  followed. 
Instantly  both  smiled.  It  was  their  harmless  secret 
again.  The  girl  slipped  back  to  her  chair  in  the 
alcove,  and  he,  without  another  word,  strode  out  into 
the  hall,  where  she  heard  that  vibrating  voice  say 
teasingly : 

"Oh,  is  that  you,  Dot?  I'd  given  you  up.  It  must 
be  nearly  time  for  lunch,  isn't  it?  " 

Then  followed  Mrs.  Jones's  rather  shrill  retort. 

"  I  wasn't  two  minutes,  Roger  Mathewson.  You 
know  I  wasn't.  You're  just  too  mean." 

She  could  hear  the  sound  of  their  voices  as  they 
went  down  the  stairs;  then  the  closing  of  the  door 
and  the  soft  purring  of  the  machine  outside  as  they 
started  away.  The  girl  sat  idle  for  a  few  minutes. 
She  remembered  the  paper  at  last,  and,  finding  the 
desired  paragraphs,  she  read  them  two  or  three 
times,  her  face  glowing  in  anticipation.  Then  she 
laid  aside  the  paper,  a  little  shadow  coming  upon  her 
face.  She  wondered  if  she  ought  to  go. 

133 


CHAPTER    VIII 

AND   MEETS    AN   OLD    FRIEND 

AS  the  big  motor  swung  into  the  Drive,  its  speed 
A  \  increased.  It  was  a  good  car  of  an  approved 
make,  and  fresh  and  new.  Jones  had  bought  it  only 
that  last  winter,  and  it  had  had  very  little  use.  He 
seldom  employed  it  himself,  and  for  whole  days  it 
stood  in  the  garage,  or  made  unknown  trips  in  the 
hands  of  the  chauffeur.  Jones  had  no  particular  in- 
terest in  it,  nor,  indeed,  had  Mrs.  Jones,  except  as  a 
novelty.  It  was  to  him  a  part  of  their  stock  in  trade. 
Everyone  they  knew  had  cars ;  that  is,  everyone  of  any 
importance.  Therefore,  it  was  necessary  that  he 
should  have  one,  and  a  good  one,  one  which  showed  his 
prosperity  to  all  the  world. 

"  Where  would  you  like  to  go?  "  asked  Mrs.  Jones, 
lounging  back  luxuriously  in  the  seat  beside  Mathew- 
son. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  care,  Dot.  I'm  a  tenderfoot  in  these 
parts,  you  know.  I've  almost  forgotten  which  end  of 
the  town  the  Battery  is  on." 

"  There  isn't  anybody  you  would  like  to  see?  " 

"  I  don't  know  much  of  anybody,"  responded 
134 


AND    MEETS    AN    OLD    FRIEND 

Mathewson.  "  Oh,  yes,"  he  added  suddenly. 
"  That's  an  idea.  Let's  go  out  to  this  suburban 
place  and  see  Parson  Wright.  That  isn't  too  far,  is 
it?  "  He  saw  that  she  was  frowning.  "  You  know 
I  always  thought  a  good  deal  of  the  parson.  I'd  like 
to  see  him  while  I'm  here,  and  I  might  not  get  another 
chance.  Of  course  it  doesn't  matter " 

But  Mrs.  Jones  broke  in  quickly. 

"  It  would  be  fine,"  and  she  spoke  to  the  chauffeur. 

"  I  really  ought  to  go  out  there  myself,"  she  added, 
sighing,  as  she  sat  back  in  the  seat  once  more.  "  I've 
been  going  to  for  a  long  time,  but  one  is  so  busy  in 
New  York.  There  is  so  much  to  do."  The  little 
peevish,  nervous  lines  came  about  her  eyes  and  mouth. 
"  We  really  ought  to  keep  track  of  them,  I  suppose," 
she  continued.  "  They  are  good,  well-meaning 
people,  and  they  do  have  a  hard  time." 

"How  is  that?  "he  asked. 

"  Oh,  they're  so  poor,  you  know,"  sighed  Mrs. 
Jones. 

For  a  moment  he  did  not  answer. 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  he  said  at  last,  and,  with  ap- 
parent indifference,  he  turned  the  talk  to  other  things. 

Twice  in  the  next  few  minutes  she  spoke  of  the 
Wrights.  She  felt  instinctively  that  the  inferiority 
of  Mabel's  family  ought  to  be  made  clear  to  him.  It 
was  an  unreasoning  instinct,  and  she  followed  it 

135 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN" 


blindly.  Each  time,  however,  he  checkmated  her  in 
his  good-humored,  imperturbable  way,  and  at  last 
she  gave  it  up. 

He  was  very  unsatisfactory  that  morning.  She 
told  him  so  more  than  once.  She  had  planned  it  all 
nicely,  to  have  him  talk  to  her  of  himself,  to  hear  the 
story  of  his  experiences  in  the  West.  Instead,  how- 
ever, he  leaned  back,  dreamily  looking  out  at  the 
changing  scene,  commenting  casually  on  this  building 
or  that  view,  until  she  sulked  ostentatiously  and  met 
his  comments  with  monosyllables.  She  found,  how- 
ever, that  she  only  made  herself  uncomfortable  by 
this.'  He  paid  no  attention  to  it.  She  therefore 
changed  her  tactics,  and  became  extremely  voluble. 

At  last  she  came  to  a  sudden  halt.  The  cheap 
brick  tenement  blocks,  just  ahead,  were  the  beginning 
of  Waiteville,  and  she  realized  with  sharp  vexation 
that,  instead  of  listening  to  him,  she  had  been  talking 
of  herself,  very  freely  and  unrestrainedly  too,  urged 
on  by  his  attentive  silence.  She  had  broken  off  in 
the  middle  of  a  sentence,  and  he  looked  up  inquiringly. 

"I'm  afraid  you  haven't  enjoyed  your  ride  very 
much,"  she  said  sulkily. 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter,  Dot?  "  he  asked.  "  Of 
course  I  have.  Why,  do  you  know,"  he  went  on, 
"  this  is  like  a  trip  in  a  strange  town.  It's  most  of 
it  new  since  I  was  here  last.  Anybody  who  leaves 

136 


AXD    MEETS    AX    OLD    FRIEXD 

New  York  for  even  a  year  or  two  would  have  to 
go  sight-seeing  when  he  came  back  to  it,  I  should 
think." 

Mrs.  Jones  bit  her  lips  with  annoyance.  So  that 
was  what  he  had  been  interested  in ;  common,  every- 
day buildings  and  streets  and  people.  Angry  little 
tears  came  into  her  eyes,  but  she  forced  them  back. 

"  I'm  glad  it  hasn't  been  too  dull,"  she  managed  to 
say. 

"Dull?"  he  exclaimed.  "Well,  I  should  think 
not.  Besides,  Dot,"  he  went  on,  "  nobody  could  be 
dull  with  you  along." 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  suppose  I  counted,"  replied  Mrs. 
Jones  spitefully. 

He  gazed  across  at  her  puzzled,  perturbed. 

"  Now,  what  do  you  mean  by  that,  Dot?  "  he  de- 
manded. "  I've  heard  every  word  you've  said,  every 
word,  and — 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  so,"  broke  in  Mrs.  Jones,  a  little 
shamefaced.  "  But,"  she  added  with  the  last  flare-up 
of  her  pride,  "you  know,  Roger,  you're  a  terribly 
funny  person." 

At  this  he  grinned  irresistibly. 

"  Now,  that's  a  fact,"  he  admitted. 

She  smiled  against  her  will. 

"  I  guess  I  am,  too,"  she  confessed  ruefully.     There 
was  a  moment's  silence.     "  Well,  here  we  are." 
10  137 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


They  stopped  before  an  old  frame  house,  whose 
sagging  doorstep  and  general  weather-beaten  look 
showed  that  it  was  a  relic  of  that  older  time,  when 
what  was  now  Waiteville  had  been  a  sparse  settlement, 
instead  of  this  gaudy  array  of  tightly  packed  tene- 
ments, which  the  rapidly  growing  city  had  pushed 
forth  as  the  new  outposts  of  its  growth. 

Almost  before  Mathewson  could  alight  and  put  out 
his  hand  to  help  Mrs.  Jones,  the  parsonage  door 
opened,  and  a  gawky  girl  came  down  the  little  walk  to 
meet  them,  with  awkward  shyness.  She  was  followed 
at  once  by  a  stout,  motherly  little  woman,  whom 
Mathewson  recognized  at  once.  She  wiped  her  hand 
carefully  on  her  apron  before  she  shook  his,  but  she 
looked  up  at  him  with  clear,  kind,  blue  eyes  which 
showed  no  trace  of  embarrassment.  He  had  forgot- 
ten that  she  had  blue  eyes.  They  were  like  Mabel's, 
except  that  they  lacked  the  dreamy  fire  of  the  girl's. 

"  Oh,  I  knew  you  at  once,"  she  said.  "  You  have 
changed  very  little,  and  it  seems  like  only  yesterday, 
when  we  were  all  at  Credmore.  Time  goes  fast  when 
you're  busy  and  getting  old."  She  showed  her  firm 
white  teeth  in  a  pleasant  smile.  Her  arm  had  gone 
about  Ruth's  shoulder,  as  they  turned  slowly  up  the 
walk.  "  Mr.  Wright  will  be  glad  to  see  you.  It 
will  be  a  fine  surprise  to  him.  He  will  be  here  in  an 
hour  or  two,  in  time  for  dinner." 

138 


AND    MEETS    AN    OLD    FKIEND 

"  Dinner !  "  broke  in  Mrs.  Jones.  "  Oh,  we  can't 
stay  that  long.  We  must  be  back  home  for  luncheon." 

"  Really  ?  "  said  Mother  Wright,  downcast  at  the 
thought  that  she  would  have  so  little  opportunity  to 
show  her  hospitality.  She  stopped,  undecided,  on 
the  doorstep.  "  You  mustn't  go  without  seeing  him. 
He  would  be  very  disappointed." 

"  Where  is  he  ?  "  asked  Mathewson. 

"At  the  church,  I  think,"  said  Mother  Wright. 
"  You  might  go  over  there,  I  suppose,"  she  added 
hesitantly.  "  I  wouldn't  have  him  miss  seeing  you 
for  anything.  It  will  do  him  such  a  lot  of  good," 
she  added  heartily. 

"  Where  is  the  church?  "  asked  Mathewson. 

It  was  only  a  few  blocks  away,  it  seemed,  and 
Mathewson  started  off  at  once,  calling  back  assurances 
at  Mrs.  Jones's  persistent  warning  that  he  must 
hurry. 

The  side  door  of  the  small,  unimposing  brick  church 
was  open,  and  he  walked  down  the  matted  corridor. 
As  he  passed  a  door  which  stood  ajar,  just  before  he 
came  to  the  wide  doorway  which  led  into  the  church 
itself,  a  rather  high-pitched,  peremptory  voice 
stopped  him. 

"Well,  who  is  it?" 

Mathewson  smiled  reminiscently.  It  was  like  a 
call  from  his  youth,  that  voice.  It  flooded  his  mind 

139 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


suddenly  with  a  dozen  partly  forgotten  incidents,  as 
real  and  as  vivid  as  if  they  had  happened  but  an  hour 
before.  He  pushed  the  door  wide  and  stood  on  the 
threshold. 

"  Hello,  parson,"  he  drawled. 

The  little,  clean-shaven  man,  whose  hair  was 
touched  with  gray,  peered  up  at  him  from  under 
bristling  eyebrows.  Then  he  started  briskly  to  his 
feet. 

"  Well,  well,  well,"  he  exclaimed  with  nervous 
heartiness.  "  Matty,  of  all  people !  "  He  caught 
the  tall  man's  big  hand,  and  shook  it  vigorously  up 
and  down.  "  Where  did  you  come  from?  " 

"Young  Lochinvar  came  out  of  the  West," 
chuckled  Mathewson,  following  the  preacher  who  led 
him,  still  holding  his  hand,  to  the  chair  opposite  the 
desk. 

"But  in  Waiteville?"  insisted  Mr.  Wright. 
"  How  did  you  happen  to  be  here  ?  " 

"  Automobile,  Mrs.  Jones,"  said  Mathewson,  with 
laconic  humor. 

"Mrs.  Jones?"  repeated  the  preacher.  "Oh, 
you  have  seen  them  then?  When  did  you  arrive  in 
New  York?" 

"  I  am  staying  at  the  Jones'."  He  answered  the 
rapid  questions  in  turn.  "  Last  night." 

"Ah,  then  you  saw  my  daughter,"  put  in  Mr. 
140 


AND    MEETS    AX    OLD    FRIEXD 

Wright,  "  Mabel.  She  is  there  with  Jones.  Fine 
girl,  Matty,  even  if  she  is  my  daughter." 

"  Very,"  said  Mathewson,  with  conviction. 

"  And  you  came  out  to  see  the  old  parson  the  day 
after  you  came  East,  eh?  "  ran  on  Mr.  Wright,  eying 
the  big  man  with  a  kindly  look.  "  Now  I  appreciate 
that." 

"  Yes,  we  started  out  on  a  motor  ride,"  said 
Mathewson  truthfully.  "  I  thought  of  you,  and  I 
tell  you,  parson,  I  am  glad  to  see  you.  Seemed 
like  old  times  to  hear  your  voice  out  in  the  hall," 
he  added,  with  an  earnestness  which  could  not  be 
mistaken. 

"  Well,  well,  well,"  repeated  Mr.  Wright,  obvi- 
ously pleased.  Then  he  added  suddenly :  "  How's 
your  soul  ?  " 

"  I  might  have  known  it,"  declared  Mathewson, 
and,  slapping  his  knee,  he  burst  into  hearty  laughter. 

Mr.  Wright  stared  at  him  soberly. 

"  Don't  laugh  at  the  big  eternal  things,  my  boy," 
he  said  earnestly.  "  There  is  plenty  of  fun  in  the 
world  without  that.  Do  you  go  to  church  nowa- 
days?" 

"  Now  look  here,  parson,"  Mathewson  leaned  for- 
ward and  put  his  hand,  with  ready  comradeship,  on 
the  preacher's  arm.  "  I'll  be  serious  with  you  for 
three  seconds.  That's  my  limit,  do  you  understand? 

141 


Most  of  the  church  I've  had  for  the  last  ten  years," 
he  went  on,  an  undercurrent  of  seriousness  and  of 
real  affection  in  his  tone,  "  has  been  remembering 
some  of  the  things  you  used  to  say,  and,  better  than 
that,  the  things  you  used  to  do.  It's  been  pretty 
often,  if  that's  any  satisfaction  to  you.  You're  the 
squarest  preacher  I  ever  knew,  and — and —  Say," 
he  added,  sheepish  at  showing  so  much  sentiment, 
"  suppose  we  shake  hands  again,  and  let  it  go  at 
that." 

Mr.  Wright  grabbed  the  hand  again  and  shook  it, 
considerably  moved. 

"  I  have  always  believed  in  you,  Matty,"  he  said, 
trying  to  hide  the  break  in  his  tone,  in  unaccustomed 
gruffness. 

Mathewson,  however,  evidently  had  come  to  his 
time  limit  of  seriousness. 

"  Hasn't  it  been  a  great  day  ?  "  he  broke  in,  grin- 
ning joyfully. 

"  In  spite  of  all " 

"  Say,  parson,"  interrupted  Mathewson  again, 
"  I'm  dying  for  a  smoke.  I  don't  suppose  that's 
allowed  in  here,  is  it  ?  " 

"  Outward  appearances,"  continued  Mr.  Wright 
determinedly.  "  I  believe  that  inside  you  are  whole- 
some and " 

"  What    a    lot    of    books    you    have,"    remarked 


AND    MEETS    AN    OLD    FRIEND 

Mathewson,  peering  about  the  room  with  assumed 
interest,  but  chuckling  under  his  breath. 

"  Essentially  good,"  finished  Mr.  Wright,  his  voice, 
which  had  been  working  up  gradually,  ending  in  a 
loud  fortissimo.  "  But,"  he  added  with  a  grim  smile, 
"  you  are  just  as  impudent  as  ever." 

"  Oh,  no,"  laughed  Mathewson.  "  I've  toned 
down  a  good  deal." 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other  for  a  few  seconds, 
and  each  smiled  a  smile  of  comradeship,  as  if  their 
little  wordy  struggle  were  only  a  reminiscence  of 
other  days. 

"  Yes,  I  have  a  good  many  books,"  said  the 
preacher.  "  And  it  has  been  a  fine  day.  As  for 
smoking,  Matty,  if  you  are  really  dying  for  it,  of 
course,  as  a  minister  I  should  give  you  assistance.  I 
can  lock  the  door  and  air  out  the  room  afterwards, 
and " 

"  Good  Lord,  no,  parson,"  broke  in  Mathewson. 
"  I  wouldn't  do  it  for  the  world.  I  suppose  some  of 
your  parishioners " 

"  Parishioners,  as  you  probably  know,"  interrupted 
Mr.  Wright,  "  are  sometimes  unreasonable  and  un- 
christian. But  so  are  we  all.  If  everybody  meant 
as  nearly  right  as  most  of  my  parishioners  do,  it  would 
be  a  pretty  good  world,  Matty." 

"  If  there  were  more  preachers  like  you,  parson," 
143 


THE   YAEDSTICK   MAN 


retorted  Mathewson,  "  there  would  be  a  whole  lot 
more  parishioners,  and  they  would,  all  of  them,  mean 
nearer  right  than " 

"  Now,  now,"  broke  in  the  little  preacher,  raising 
his  hand  to  stop  him,  but  his  eyes  shining  brightly 
with  real  pleasure,  nevertheless.  "  Enough  of  that. 
I  know  my  faults.  The  Lord  keeps  me  very  humble, 
Matty,  but,  I  declare,"  he  added,  humanity  getting 
the  better  of  him  for  a  minute,  "  it  is  good  to  have 
some  one  come  along  and  pat  you  on  the  back  once  in 
a  while.  Do  you  know,  Matty,"  he  went  on,  closing 
with  a  bang  the  book  which  lay  in  front  of  him  on  the 
desk,  "  I  am  going  to  stop  work  right  now,  shut  up 
shop,  and  go  over  home  with  you.  This  is  a  notable 
occasion,  my  boy."  By  this  time  he  was  up  and  at 
the  door.  "  And,"  he  added,  "  you  can  smoke  on  the 
way." 

They  were  an  odd  contrast  as  they  tramped  down 
the  street,  the  little  preacher  with  his  short,  nervous 
steps,  and  the  tall,  lank  stranger  with  his  long,  loping 
stride. 

"How  long  have  you  been  here,  parson?"  asked 
Mathewson. 

"  Almost  six  years.  The  Lord  has  been  good  to 
me,"  he  said  in  humble  explanation.  "  It  is  a  grow- 
ing place.  It  has  changed  a  good  deal  since  I  came. 
It  used  to  be  more  like  country,"  he  sighed.  "  Well, 

144 


AXD    MEETS    AN    OLD    FRIEND 

we  have  one  wood  left,"  he  added  gratefully,  as 
he  pointed  to  the  grouping  tree  tops  beyond  the  main 
thoroughfare.  "  We  call  it  Mabel's  forest.  She 
likes  to  go  there,"  he  explained  fondly. 

Mathewson  looked  at  the  waving  green  with  a  new, 
gripping  interest. 

"  Oh,"  he  said. 

They  stopped  in  front  of  the  house,  and  Mr. 
Wright  examined  the  silent  automobile  with  keen  in- 
terest. 

"  Jones  has  done  well,  hasn't  he  ?  "  he  said,  turning 
to  Mathewson.  "  The  Lord  prospers  the  righteous." 

"  How  about  you,  parson  ?  "  asked  Mathewson 
quizzically. 

"  Me  ?  "  Mr.  Wright  showed  some  uneasiness  as 
he  glanced  up  at  the  tall  man.  "  Why,  I  have  every- 
thing to  be  thankful  for.  Think  of— 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  drawled  Mathewson,  "  but— 
prosperity?  " 

"Money?"  asked  the  preacher.  "Well,  yes,  I 
should  like  a  little  more  money,  for  my  youngsters' 
sake."  He  looked  away  down  the  street,  with  its 
crowds  of  ill-clothed  tenement  children  dancing  on 
the  pavement,  their  only  playground.  "  I  want  my 
boys  to  go  to  college ;  but  I'm  saving,"  he  added  with 
sudden  hopefulness.  "  I  deposited  something  yester- 
day." His  elation  passed  quickly.  A  tired  look 

145 


THE    YARDSTICK    MAN 


came  into  his  eyes,  and  a  tired  droop  to  his  shoulders. 
"  But  it's  slow,  Matty."  Then,  conscious  that  he 
was  obtruding  his  affairs  into  what  should  be  a  joyful 
occasion,  he  added  briskly :  "  Let's  go  in." 

He  led  Mathewson  into  the  plain  little  parlor  and 
left  him,  for  a  second,  to  peer  into  the  dining  room 
beyond. 

"  They  must  be  out  in  the  garden,"  he  said,  coming 
back. 

Mathewson  was  standing,  gazing  thoughtfully  out 
of  the  window.  A  sudden  idea  had  come  to  him;  an 
impulse  which  the  preacher's  voice  stirred  into  action. 

"  How  much  have  you,  parson  ?  "  he  demanded, 
turning. 

Mr.  Wright  stared  at  him. 

"  How  much  what  ?  " 

"  Money,"  replied  Mathewson  laconically. 

"  Oh,  not  much."  The  wrinkles  on  Mr.  Wright's 
brow  increased  as  if  the  subject  was  distasteful  to 
him.  Mathewson's  level,  questioning  look,  however, 
seemed  to  force  him  on.  "  A  little  over  thirteen  hun- 
dred dollars,  that's  all,"  he  continued,  realizing  how 
small  the  amount  was,  after  all  these  long  years  of 
struggle  and  economy.  "  You  know,  Matty,  a  min- 
ister can't  save  much " 

"  Could  you  write  me  a  check  immediately  for 
thirteen  hundred  dollars  ?  " 

146 


AND    MEETS   AN   OLD   FRIEND 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  the  preacher,  showing  his 
bewilderment.  "  I  could,  of  course ;  but  why, 
Matty?" 

"  I'll  tell  you,  parson,"  Mathewson  spoke  in  a 
lowered  voice.  "  I  have  some  stock  in  a  certain  rail- 
road. It's  out  West.  I  know  all  about  it.  I  want 
you  to  buy  some  of  it.  I'll  sell  it  to  you  right.  I'll 
guarantee,"  he  went  on  insistently,  as  he  saw  the 
doubtful  look  come  on  the  preacher's  face,  "  that  you 
shan't  lose  a  cent,  and  there's  a  chance — just  a 
chance — that  you  may  make  a  good  deal." 

Mr.  Wright  shook  his  head  slowly. 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  such  things, 
Matty,"  he  said.  "  No,  the  banks  are  good  enough 
for  me." 

"  They're  not  good  enough  when  you  can  do 
better,"  argued  Mathewson,  determination  now  fol- 
lowing his  impulse. 

"  And,  besides,  I  should  lose  my  interest  in  the 
savings  bank  if  I  should  draw  it  out  now." 

"You  shan't  lose  that  or  anything  else,  I  tell 
you,"  insisted  Mathewson.  "  Look  here,  parson,  I 
want  you  to  do  this,  and  you  know  I  wouldn't  want 
you  to  if  I  didn't  think  it  might  be  a  good  thing  for 
you.  Of  course,  it  may  not.  There  are  chances 
against  it,  big  ones  some  people  would  say,  if  they 
knew  all  that  I  know.  But  somehow  I  believe— 

147 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


His  jaw  had  suddenly  set  tight.  "  Well,  you  can't 
lose  a  cent  anyhow,  parson ;  that's  flat." 

Mr.  Wright  gazed  up  at  him  waveringly. 

"  And  besides,"  he  argued  weakly,  "  would  it  be 
right,  Matty,  right  for  me  as  a  preacher?  Wouldn't 
it  be  a  sort  of  gambling,  Matty  ?  " 

"  Do  you  call  Jones  a  gambler  ?  That's  his  busi- 
ness." 

"  Why,  no,  of  course  not.  I  don't  know,  Matt}\ 
I'll  think  it  over.  There's  no  hurry,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  to  do,"  said  Mathewson  de- 
cisively. "  You  come  down  to  the  house  to-morrow, 
and  bring  the  money  with  you.  I've  set  my  heart  on 
it,  parson,"  he  added  earnestly. 

"  I  believe  in  you,  Matty,"  the  preacher  said,  still 
troubled,  "  but — "  slowly  his  manner  changed — "  do 
you  really  think  I  could  make  something,  Matty  ?  " 

"  I  can't  guarantee  that,  parson.  There's  a 
chance.  But  you  can't  lose.  I  give  you  my  word 
for  that." 

At  that  instant  the  door  from  the  dining  room  was 
flung  open,  and  two  small  boys  came  hurtling  in. 

"  Daddy,"  they  cried,  almost  in  a  breath,  as  they 
flung  themselves  upon  the  preacher. 

When  the  preacher  looked  at  Mathewson  again  he 
was  surprised  to  see  a  dreamy,  far-away  look  in  the 
tall  man's  eyes,  and  Mathewson,  caught  unawares, 

148 


AND    MEETS    AN   OLD    FRIEND 

spoke  quickly  words  which,  had  the  preacher  been 
able  to  understand,  would  have  explained  to  the  full 
that  look  and  the  heartache  which  was  back  of  it. 

"  Pretty  good  title  that,"  was  what  Mathewson 
said:  "Daddy." 

When  Mrs.  Jones  came  back  from  the  garden  with 
Mother  Wright,  she  found  Mathewson  in  an  armchair 
in  the  little  parlor.  On  each  knee  was  a  small  boy, 
and  opposite,  leaning  forward  eagerly,  was  the  little 
gray-haired  preacher.  There  was  a  ripple  of  awed 
applause  as  she  came  in.  Mathewson  had  just 
finished  a  story,  and  it  would  have  been  hard  to  tell 
which  of  the  three,  father  and  boys,  showed  the  more 
childlike  delight,  or  clamored  the  louder  for  more. 

They  tried  hard  to  keep  him,  they  and  kindly 
Mother  Wright  and  shy  Ruth ;  and  when  they  found 
that  was  impossible,  they  begged  him  to  come  again. 
They  followed  in  a  troop  to  the  car,  eying  Mrs. 
Jones  with  respect  as  she  gave  her  orders  to  the 
chauffeur,  and  when  the  big  machine  swung  about  for 
its  homeward  journey,  the  little  family  chorused  and 
waved  its  good-bys,  until  they  were  out  of  sight. 

For  some  minutes  Mrs.  Jones 'sat  stiff  and  silent, 
looking  straight  ahead.  She  had  felt  the  difference 
in  the  attitude  of  those  people  toward  her  and  toward 
the  man  beside  her,  and  she  was  asking  herself,  rather 

149 


THE    YAEDSTICK   MAN 


bitterly,  the  reason  for  it.  She  had  done  a  good  deal 
for  the  Wrights  from  time  to  time.  It  was  extraordi- 
nary how  little  people  appreciated  what  was  done  for 
them.  It  was  not  part  of  her  mood  to  be  angry  at 
Mathewson.  On  the  contrary,  she  unreasonably 
liked  him  the  more.  She  blamed  the  Wrights,  how- 
ever. They  had  spoiled  her  morning,  and  her  earlier 
impulse — to  show  him  their  inferiority — came  back  to 
her  with  renewed  force.  Shortly  she  leaned  back 
among  the  cushions  and  sighed  dolefully. 

"  It's  rather  pitiful,  isn't  it,  Roger?  "  she  said,  in  a 
tone  which  carried  the  certainty  that  he  would  agree 
with  her. 

"  What  is  ?  "  he  asked,  looking  up  in  surprise.  He 
had  been  smiling  good-humoredly  to  himself  over  the 
incidents  of  the  last  half  hour. 

"  Oh,  those  people,"  sighed  Mrs.  Jones.  "  They 
are  so  poor  and  so  frightfully  common." 

She  paused.  Then,  as  he  said  nothing,  she  went 
on. 

"  And  there  are  such  a  lot  of  them.  There  were 
three  at  school  this  morning,  three  we  didn't  see  at  all, 
and  then  there  is  Mabel."  His  continued  silence 
prodded  her  on  desperately.  "  And  Mabel  is  really  a 
kind  of  a  servant,"  she  declared. 

There  was  still  another  pause.  This  time,  how- 
ever, she  waited  almost  breathlessly  for  his  answer. 

150 


AND   MEETS   AN    OLD   FKIEND 

She  had  gone  further  even  than  she  had  intended.  It 
came  at  last. 

"Isn't  that  a  pretty  good  job?"  he  drawled, 
staring  straight  ahead. 

"  Isn't  what  a  pretty  good  job?  " 

"  Service,"  he  said  laconically. 

She  flushed,  surprised  at  this  from  him. 

"  Why,  of  course  it  is ;  that  is,  theoretically." 
She  changed  front  suddenly.  "  I'm  always  being 
misunderstood,"  she  complained.  "  I  wasn't  saying 
a  word  against  them.  I'm  sorry  for  them,  that's  all. 
Of  course,  I  know  he  does  a  lot  of  good,  and  they 
get  along  wonderfully  under  the  circumstances,  and — 
and — Mabel  is  a  fine,  sweet  girl.  That's  why  it 
seems  so  pitiful." 

"  You  mean  that  they  haven't  money?  "  he  asked 
quietly. 

"  Oh,  not  merely  money,"  cried  Mrs.  Jones,  with 
that  outward  scorn  which  people  of  means  always 
affect  toward  the  means  themselves,  "  but  the  other 
things,  the  things  that  go  with  it;  intellectual  out- 
look and  culture  and  taste.  Now,  isn't  that  parlor 
the  worst  room  you  ever  saw?  What  chance  have 
those  children  to  ever  learn  ?  Children !  "  she  stormed 
on.  "  Think  of  it.  Seven  of  them  on  his  little 
salary.  Poor  people  have  so  little  judgment.  One 
or  two  is  absolutely  all  they  had  any  right  to  have." 

151 


THE    YARDSTICK    MAN 


"  They  seemed  to  be  pretty  decent  youngsters,"  re- 
marked Mathewson  after  a  minute,  "  as  far  as  I  could 
see." 

"  Oh,  they  are  good  enough,"  retorted  Mrs.  Jones 
with  outward  contempt. 

"  And  they  all  seemed  rather  happy,"  he  mused 
aloud,  not  looking  at  her,  "  and  contented." 

"  Happy,  yes,"  cried  Mrs.  Jones  excitedly,  her 
hands  clenched  viciously.  "  Happy  in  a  narrow, 
dogged  kind  of  way ;  contented  to  stand  still.  Why 
should  they  be  contented  ?  "  she  demanded  with  open 
bitterness.  "  What  have  they  to  be  contented  about  ? 
I  don't  see.  It  seems  almost  despicable  to  just  sit 
still,  and  take  what  the  world  throws  at  you.  It's 
the  discontented  people  who  get  somewhere.  I  like 
Mrs.  Wright  and  all  that,  but  whenever  I  think  of  her 
going  through  her  dreary  routine  day  after  day,  and 
meekly  scrimping  and  getting  along  somehow,  I  de- 
clare I  think  I'm  lucky." 

He  listened  to  this  rather  mixed  outburst,  his  face 
expressionless.  Now  he  smiled  slowly. 

"  You  are,"  he  said  quietly.  "  Of  course  you 
are." 

There  was  silence  for  a  full  minute  before  she  spoke 
again.  She  was  sitting  straight,  rigidly,  her  body 
tense,  her  brittle  nerves  pulled  almost  to  the  breaking 
point.  It  took  so  little  to  get  Mrs.  Jones's  nerves  to 

152 


AND    MEETS   AN    OLD   FRIEND 

that  point.  As  she  gazed  at  him  now,  her  eyes  grew 
haggard  and  her  mouth  drooped  pitifully. 

"  I'm  not,"  she  broke  out  sharply.  "  I'm  not.  I 
tell  you  I'm  not  a  bit  lucky.  Not  a  word  of  what 
I've  said  is  true.  Do  you  hear,  Roger?  "  She  caught 
his  arm  with  her  hand,  and  his  look  surprised  sud- 
den tears  in  her  eyes.  "  I  try  to  make  myself  be- 
lieve all  that,"  she  went  on,  her  voice  quivering  with 
emotion,  "  but  it  isn't  so.  I  envy  them  and  I  don't 
know  why.  I  envy  Mrs.  Wright  sometimes  until  I 
almost  hate  her.  Why  should  she  be  happy  when  I'm 
not?  And  I'm  not,  Roger.  Oh!  "  she  cried  out,  as 
if  there  were  no  words  to  express  that  restless  dis- 
content within  her. 

To  his  surprise,  she  leaned  forward  and  spoke  to 
the  chauffeur. 

"  Can't  you  go  faster? "  she  cried.  "  Faster, 
please,  faster." 

As  the  machine  leaped  forward,  she  clung  to  the 
seat  in  front  of  her,  her  hair  blowing,  her  nostrils 
distended,  her  cheeks  red  with  excitement,  and  her 
mouth  partly  open  as  if  she  were  veritably  drinking 
in  the  speed,  which  in  some  strange  way  satisfied  her 
mood.  Mathewson  had  not  stirred.  He  sat  watch- 
ing her,  his  gray  eyes  narrowed  with  compassion,  but 
his  mouth  smiling  at  the  humor  of  it. 

Shortly  they  came  to  a  busy  corner,  and  the  ma- 
ll 153 


, 


THE   YAEDSTICK   MAN 


chine  slowed  down,  to  crawl  its  roundabout  way  past 
trucks  and  carriages  and  other  vehicles,  which  seemed 
to  come  in  droves  from  every  direction.  She  leaned 
back  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"  Feel  better,  eh?  "  drawled  Mathewson. 

For  reply  she  only  pressed  her  lips  tightly  together. 
He  laughed  then,  hearty,  boyish,  friendly  laughter. 
She  glanced  across  at  him,  and  then  she  laughed  also, 
long  and  almost  hysterically,  as  if  she  could  not  stop. 

"  I'm  such  a  fool,  Roger,"  she  whispered,  turning 
tearful  eyes  to  him  in  the  midst  of  her  laughter. 

"  Sure,"  agreed  Mathewson  in  his  careless,  happy- 
go-lucky  way.  "  We  all  are.  That's  half  the  fun 
of  living." 

She  shook  her  head  at  this,  but  soon  she  was  laugh- 
ing again,  more  naturally  this  time,  for  he  had  taken 
the  reins  of  conversation  into  his  own  hands  and  he 
drove  her  with  firm  good  humor  into  other  paths,  out 
of  herself. 


CHAPTER   IX 

MABEL  WRIGHT   HAS   A   DREAM   COME   TRUE 

AL  things  considered,  dinner  that  evening  was 
an  enjoyable  function.  I  repeat:  all  things 
considered. 

Jones  had  been  watching  the  news  reports  tensely 
all  day,  and  nothing  had  happened;  nothing,  except 
the  early  morning  decision  between  himself  and  Shel- 
don to  go  ahead,  and  the  necessary  activities  which 
came  with  that  decision.  Otherwise  it  had  been  a  ner- 
vous, waiting,  wearing  day.  Marking  time,  under 
such  circumstances,  was  the  hardest  of  all  things. 
And  in  spite  of  his  certainty  of  success,  and  in  a 
measure  of  course  because  of  it,  he  was  eager  for 
the  event — restlessly,  anxiously  eager. 

Professor  Trowbridge  had  been  an  incubus.  He 
had  been  in  and  out  of  the  office  all  day,  turning  up, 
it  seemed  to  Jones,  invariably  at  the  wrong  time. 
Jones,  therefore,  had  been  more  tired  and  out  of  sorts 
than  usual  when  he  reached  the  house.  There  he 
had  found  Mathewson  lolling  over  the  evening  paper 
in  the  library.  His  very  position  had  seemed  an 
affront  to  Jones.  Worse  affront  followed  when  Jones 

155 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


learned  that  Mathewson,  who  had  pleaded  business 
as  an  excuse  for  not  coming  down  to  the  office,  had 
spent  the  morning  driving  with  Mrs.  Jones,  and  the 
afternoon — except  for  an  hour's  excursion,  nobody 
knew  where — comfortably  and  lazily  in  the  Jones's 
library.  It  will  be  seen,  therefore,  that  Jones  was 
scarcely  in  the  humor  to  be  pleasantly  sociable. 

Mrs.  Jones  also  was  somewhat  dissatisfied.  In  the 
first  place,  Mathewson  had  announced  that  he  would 
be  out  that  evening.  This  dulled  her  prospect,  and 
she  felt  a  certain  amount  of  resentment  over  it  as 
well.  He  had  not  even  told  her  where  he  was  going. 
In  the  second  place,  Jones  had  rather  suspiciously 
taken  her  to  task  for  the  morning's  drive,  and  some 
sharp  words  had  been  exchanged.  Not  that  sharp 
words  were  uncommon,  but  she  seemed  to  be  able  to 
throw  off  their  effect  less  easily  that  night.  In  the 
third  place — and  perhaps,  momentarily,  the  hardest 
of  ah1 — the  professor  was  late  to  dinner.  It  went 
very  hard  with  Mrs.  Jones  when  anybody  else  was 
late  to  dinner.  Her  own  lapses  were  excusable.  It 
was  her  house,  and  the  servants  were  her  servants. 

As  for  the  professor  himself,  he  was  totally  dis- 
gruntled with  his  day's  work.  He  had  been  able  to 
discover  only  one  glimmer  of  light  for  Credmore 
finances  after  hours  of  strenuous,  unaccustomed  effort 
in  the  noisy,  disagreeable  city.  Botts,  the  patent 

156 


MABEL  HAS  A  DREAM  COME  TRUE 

medicine  man,  purveyor  of  the  celebrated  "  Botts' 
Bitters,"  had  put  him  off  until  the  following  day. 
Botts  had  been  one  of  the  mainstays  of  his  hopes,  and 
he  was  therefore  reasonably  optimistic  concerning 
him.  Botts  was  a  trustee  of  Credmore  also,  a  promi- 
nent churchman  of  the  proper  denomination  of 
course,  and  rich;  oh,  yes,  very  rich.  Everyone  who 
reads  the  advertising  cards  in  the  street  cars  knows 
how  many  bottles  of  "  Botts'  Bitters  "  were  sold  last 
year.  And  when  one  sits  down  and  figures  out  that 
on  every  one  of  those  bottles  there  was  a  clean  profit 
to  Botts,  over  all  expenses,  of  nearly  twenty-five 
per  cent,  there  could  be  no  question  about  his  wealth. 
Why,  his  art  gallery  alone,  which  the  professor  de- 
scribed at  some  length  at  the  table  that  evening,  was 
a  sufficient  indication.  Of  course  he  had  an  art  gallery. 
No  successful  patent  medicine  man  is  without  an  art 
gallery  and  a  steam  yacht.  Botts'  yacht  was  fa- 
mous. He  was  the  professor's  only  hope,  however, 
and  Mathewson's  presence  at  the  table  did  not  tend 
to  add  to  what  little  satisfaction  he  had  found  in 
the  promise  of  Brother  Botts. 

This  leaves  only  Mathewson,  who  it  seems  was, 
in  some  measure  at  any  rate,  unconsciously  respon- 
sible for  the  discontent  of  the  others,  and  Mabel.  And 
Mabel  was  very  quiet,  alternating  between  anticipa- 
tion and  the  well-defined  doubt  which  had  followed 

157 


THE   YARDSTICK   MAN 


her  all  day  long,  as  to  whether  she  would  be  doing 
right  to  satisfy  that  anticipation. 

When  I  say,  therefore,  that  dinner  that  evening, 
under  the  circumstances,  was  an  enjoyable  function, 
it  should  not  give  the  reader  the  notion  that  it  was 
hilarious.  It  went  off  surprisingly  well,  nevertheless, 
in  spite  of  occasional  bickerings  between  the  head  and 
the  foot  of  the  table ;  in  spite  of  the  professor's  gloomy 
disapproval  at  some  of  Mathewson's  attempts  at  good 
humor;  in  spite,  indeed,  of  the  general  disparity  of 
temperament  of  those  concerned. 

Almost  as  soon  as  it  was  over,  Mathewson  hurried 
out.  He  must  not  be  late  for  his  engagement,  he  told 
them,  and  he  winked  secretly  at  Mabel,  a  wink  which 
nearly  upset  their  plans,  because  Mrs.  Jones's  quick 
eye  caught  the  flush  which  followed  it  on  the  girl's 
face.  He  waited,  smoking,  on  the  corner  two  blocks 
away,  nearly  twenty  minutes  before  he  saw  the  slender 
figure  come  flying  down  to  meet  him. 

"  It's  wicked,"  the  girl  exclaimed,  holding  her  voice 
almost  to  a  whisper,  although  they  stood  upon  an 
open  street  corner  with  cars  and  cabs  and  people 
surging  about  them.  "  I  ought  not  to  have  come." 

"  Nonsense,"  he  said,  as  he  hailed  a  passing  taxi- 
cab. 

He  helped  her  in  and  jumped  in  beside  her. 

"  This  is  to  make  up  for  the  top  gallery,"  he 
158 


MABEL  HAS  A  DREAM  COME  TRUE 

laughed,  as  he  saw  her  look  at  him  in  amazement  at 
the  unwonted  luxury. 

She  was  really  troubled,  however. 

"  I  almost  called  up  father  this  afternoon,  to  tell 
him  about  it,  and  to  ask  him  if  he  thought  it  was 
all  right." 

"  Why  didn't  you?  " 

"  I  was  afraid — "  she  began.  "  You  wouldn't 
have  minded?  " 

"  Not  a  bit.  If  I  had  thought  of  it,  I  should  have 
mentioned  it  to  him  this  morning  myself." 

"  If  I  had  known  that,  I  believe  I  should  have  done 
it.  No,  I  wouldn't,"  she  contradicted  herself  quickly. 
"  It  would  have  spoiled  it — somehow.  There  wouldn't 
have  been  any  secret  then,  would  there  ?  " 

"  It  is  rather  fun,"  he  said  smiling,  "  having  se- 
crets. I  suppose  I'm  old  enough  to  put  away  child- 
ish things,  but  I  don't  believe  I  shall  ever  grow  up." 
He  laughed  delightedly  his  boyish,  hearty  laugh. 

"  That's  just  like  father,"  declared  the  girl  judi- 
.ciously.  "  He's  younger  than  any  of  us,  I  think." 

"  You're  not  terribly  old,"  he  teased. 

"  Oh,  sometimes  I  am,"  retorted  the  girl  with  a 
sigh.  "  Sometimes  I  feel  like  seventy.  But  not  to- 
night," she  broke  out  gayly,  anticipation  shining  in 
her  eyes.  "  Think  of  it.  My  first  play.  It's  won- 
derful." 

159 


THE   YARDSTICK   MAN 


He  smiled  down  at  her. 

"  It  is,"  he  said ;  "  just  that.  You  know,  in  the 
first  place,  the  orchestra  plays." 

"  Oh,  does  it?  "  she  cried  eagerly. 

"  Yes,  and  then  they  lift  an  outside  curtain  and 
you  think  it's  all  going  to  begin,  and  it  doesn't  at  all, 
because  there  is  another  curtain.  That  outside  cur- 
tain is  for  protection  from  fire  they  say,  but  I  think 
its  main  object  is  to  tantalize  the  audience." 

"  Oh !  "  she  exclaimed  breathlessly. 

"  And  then,  by  and  by  the  lights  go  up." 

"  You  mustn't  tell  me,"  she  cried,  breaking  in. 
"  You  just  mustn't.  It  will  spoil  it  all." 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry."  He  laughed  penitently.  "That's 
just  like  me.  I  always  like  to  tell  people  how  a  story 
ends,  don't  you?  I  mean  people  who  haven't  read  it." 

"  No.    I  like  to  let  them  find  it  out  for  themselves." 

"  Of  course.  You're  more  considerate  than  I  am. 
I'm  selfish." 

"  No,"  she  argued  quickly,  "  it  isn't  that.  It's 
just  a  difference.  You  want  to  have  people  enjoy 
themselves  so  much  that  you  just  can't  wait  to  let 
them  enjoy  themselves  in  their  own  way.  That's  not 
selfish.  That's  just  enthusiasm." 

"  I  wonder,"  he  said,  but  he  smiled  with  open 
pleasure  at  her  analysis.  "  I  remember  a  fool  thing 
I  did  when  I  was  a  kid — that  is,  when  I  was  a  smaller 

160 


MABEL  HAS  A  DREAM  COME  TRUE 

kid  than  I  am  now.  It  was  up  home.  We  lived  in 
New  Hampshire  then.  I  was  at  the  church  down  on 
the  main  street,  and  my  father  had  gone  home.  We 
lived  about  two  blocks  from  the  church.  And  all  at 
once  we  heard  a  band  playing  down  the  street,  and 
all  of  us  youngsters  rushed  out  in  front  to  see  it. 
Well,  the  first  thing  I  thought  of  was  my  father, 
and  I  took  to  my  heels  and  ran  all  the  way  home 
to  get  him  to  come  down  and  see  that  fool  band.  Of 
course,"  he  added  with  a  little  grimace,  "  by  the  time 
we  got  there  the  band  was  gone,  and  neither  of  us 
saw  it." 

"  I  think  that  was  fine,"  declared  the  girl. 

"  No,"  he  said,  a  little  ashamed  of  having  told  it. 
"  It  was  just  plain  stupid." 

"  Then  your  father  is — "    She  hesitated. 

"  He  died  two  or  three  years  after  that,  and  my 
mother  died  while  I  was  in  college." 

"  And  you  had  no  brothers  and  sisters  ?  " 

"  No." 

She  was  silent  a  moment,  staring  out  through  the 
window  at  the  bright  lights  of  upper  Broadway. 

"  I  think,"  she  said  slowly,  "  you  must  have  been 
very  lonesome." 

"  I  was,  I  guess,"  he  said,  "  but  I  never  realized  it. 
The  world  was  mighty  new  and  interesting,"  he  added, 
as  if  in  self- justification. 

161 


THE    YARDSTICK    MAN 


They  were  almost  at  their  journey's  end.  The  car 
had  taken  its  place  in  the  short  waiting  line.  The 
girl  peered  out  at  the  brilliant,  many-colored  chang- 
ing lights  in  front  of  the  theater. 

"  It  is  a  wonderful  world,"  she  said. 

As  he  looked  down  at  her,  all  the  artificial  bril- 
liancy of  the  lights  outside  seemed  to  be  dimmed  be- 
fore the  glow  of  her  cheeks  and  the  shining  of  her 
eyes. 

"  I  think  I  realize  it  now,"  he  said  softly,  half  to 
himself. 

She  scarcely  heard  him.  Her  eyes  were  feasting 
upon  the  wonders  which  led  into  that  undiscovered 
country  beyond  the  portal  of  the  theater,  a  country 
peopled  with  long-dreamt  dreams,  a  country  which 
she  was  suddenly  and  unexpectedly  to  invade.  A 
large  man  in  uniform  pulled  open  the  door,  and  they 
stepped  out  upon  the  thronging  pavement. 

If  they  had  seemed  like  a  pair  of  children  before, 
the  impression  increased  now.  They  laughed  de- 
lightedly over  mere  nothings  as  they  climbed  the  long 
stairway.  No  one,  I  believe,  ever  enjoyed  climbing 
to  the  top  gallery  of  a  theater  as  they  did  that 
night.  The  dingy,  sordid  little  way  was  filled  with 
romance  to  her,  and  he,  realizing  this,  enjoyed  her 
every  exclamation  to  the  full.  Only  one  thing  about 
them  seemed  grown-up — his  big  hand  under  her  elbow 

162 


MABEL  HAS  A  DREAM  COME  TRUE 

as  he  helped  her.  They  should  have  gone  hand  in 
hand. 

When  at  last  they  reached  the  top;  when  she  had 
her  first  glimpse  of  the  compact  auditorium,  the  bril- 
liantly decorated  proscenium,  the  big  sprays  of 
lights,  the  showy  curtain,  and  the  orchestra  pit  into 
which  the  men  were  already  filing  from  some  unknown 
place  below ;  and  when  they  climbed  their  way  slowly 
down  to  the  seats  he  had  obtained  that  afternoon, 
past  the  rows  which  were  already  filling  rapidly ;  and 
when  they  sank  into  the  bare,  uncomfortable  chairs, 
which  seemed  luxurious ;  and  when  they  heard  all  the 
strange  noises  of  the  theater,  the  hum  of  conversation, 
the  crashing  of  lowering  seats,  the  tuning  of  the  in- 
struments down  below,  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  sum- 
mit of  happiness  had  been  reached,  that  there  could 
be  nothing  beyond. 

Mathewson's  heart  was  very  light  within  him  as  he 
watched  her.  He  seemed  to  see  it  through  her  eyes. 
It  all  became  new  and  delightful,  as  if  for  him  also 
it  was  that  first  vision  of  the  wonders  of  the  theater. 
He  was  annoyed,  really,  when  a  short,  dapper,  gray- 
haired  man  came  to  their  row  just  as  the  orchestra 
began  playing,  and  crowded  his  way  past  Mabel — to 
whom  Mathewson  had  given  the  aisle  seat,  so  that 
her  view  might  be  the  less  obstructed — and  past 
Mathewson  to  the  vacant  place  beside  him.  He  was 

163 


THE    YAEDSTICK   MAN 


annoyed  at  himself  momentarily  for  letting  Mr.  Bru- 
ning  or  anyone  else  break  in  upon  their  evening.  It 
seemed  suddenly  like  a  sacrilege.  For  once  his  im- 
pulse had  led  him  wrong. 

It  proved  to  be  not  as  bad  an  error  as  he  feared, 
however,  for  Mr.  Bruning  made  it  unexpectedly  easy 
for  him.  Once  he  had  bowed  to  Mabel  with  grave 
dignity,  and  had  flashed  a  rather  knowing  and  dis- 
concerting look  at  Mathewson,  he  settled  himself  back 
to  study  the  unfamiliar  single-sheet  program,  with  a 
professional  playgoer's  interest. 

"  It  iss  a  climb,"  he  remarked,  his  rapid  breath- 
ing proving  his  words,  "  but  when  you  get  here 
it  iss  not  so  bad.  I'm  glad  I  came,  joost  to  haf 
done  it." 

"  It's  good  fun,"  agreed  Mathewson.  "  I  like  the 
people,  too,"  he  added.  "  They  are  just  everyday 
folks." 

"  What  do  you  call  the  people  downstairs  ?  "  asked 
Mr.  Bruning,  chuckling.  "  Once  a  week  folks,  or 
what?" 

Mathewson  laughed. 

"  These  people  come  to  the  play,"  he  explained. 
"  A  good  many  of  them  down  there  come  because 
there  isn't  any  better  place  to  go.  You  see  what  I 
mean." 

"  Maybe,"  assented  Bruning.  "  Well,  anyhow,  it's 
164 


MABEL  HAS  A  DREAM  COME  TRUE 

a  grand  place  to  talk  business,  business  the  people 
down  below  would  like  to  hear.  Yes?  You  are  a 
genius,  my  boy.  How  did  you  think  of  it?  " 

"  Nobody'd  look  for  Allen  Holworthy  up  here," 
said  Mathewson,  pleased.  "  I'm  Roger  Mathewson  at 
present,  and  I  want  to  stay  Roger  Mathewson  until 
we've  tried  to  turn  the  trick." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Bruning.  "  I  see,  but  who  am 
I?  " 

"  You  run  a  restaurant  around  the  corner," 
laughed  Mathewson,  and  Bruning,  the  banker,  who 
was  as  well  the  largest  stockholder  in  the  famous 
Chester  House,  caught  the  play  and  shook  with 
laughter. 

"Ach!    So  I  am.    Goot." 

Now,  however,  the  orchestra  had  stopped,  the  foot- 
lights had  flared  up,  and  at  last  the  old-fashioned 
red  curtain  parted  and  the  real  play  began. 

Bruning  loved  the  theater.  "  Goot  "  was  the  last 
word  he  spoke  until  the  curtains  came  together  at  the 
end  of  the  first  act.  Mathewson  was  glad  of  that. 
He  sat  back,  dividing  his  attention  between  the  stage 
and  the  girl  beside  him,  who  leaned  forward,  her 
elbow  on  the  chair  arm,  her  chin  in  her  hands, 
scarcely  breathing  lest  she  miss  one  word.  It  was  not 
new  to  him.  He  had  seen  half  a  dozen  actresses  play 
Rosalind.  He  had  watched  as  many  Orlandos  throw 

165 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


as  many  Charles,  but,  watching  her,  he  had  all  the 
pleasure  of  novelty  and  more.  And  when  at  the  end 
of  the  act  she  sank  back  with  a  happy  little  sigh, 
and  said  to  him,  in  a  voice  so  low  that  it  was  almost 
hidden  under  the  applause,  "  It's  wonderful — more 
wonderful  than  my  dreams,"  he  was  certain  that  there 
never  had  been  as  beautiful  a  performance  in  the 
history  of  the  stage. 

As  for  Mabel,  now  that  the  lights  were  up  and  the 
people  were  moving  and  talking  all  about  her,  she 
stared  hazily  into  space,  ignoring  the  theater  which, 
in  the  beginning  a  revelation  to  her,  had  become 
now  mere  commonplace  compared  to  the  vision  which 
had  opened  beyond  the  red  curtain.  She  was  hear- 
ing that  rich,  melodious  voice  of  the  evening's  Rosa- 
lind, her  lilting  laughter.  She  was  visualizing  again 
the  heroic  Orlando,  who  did  not  seem  too  tall  and 
thin  to  her,  and  whose  voice,  in  her  memory,  had  no 
harshness.  Occasional  bits  of  conversation  from  the 
pair  beside  her  half  loosened  her  hold  upon  the  dream 
world  now  and  again. 

"  It  iss  like  a  dam  that  iss  toppling,  the  water 
breaking  through  at  a  hundred  cracks,"  she  vaguely 
heard  Mr.  Bruning  say.  "  It  iss  being  sold  in 
bunches  and  in  driblets.  Outsiders  are  getting  wise. 
They  are  selling  already.  He  knows.  You  will  see. 
It  will  come  to-morrow,  I  think,  the  crash." 

166 


MABEL  HAS  A  DEEAM  COME  TRUE 

She  would  have  been  interested  at  any  other  time, 
but  not  now.  She  drifted  back  into  the  dream  again, 
the  dream  he  had  built  for  her.  She  had  not  forgot- 
ten that.  She  only  wondered,  in  an  undefined,  child- 
like way,  how  he  could  leave  it,  how  he  could  talk  of 
other  things.  She  heard  dimly  the  tones  of  his  voice 
now.  He  was  there,  and  she  was  glad. 

Bruning  left  between  the  third  and  fourth  acts. 

"  I  would  like  to  stay,"  he  said  to  Mathewson. 
"  An  interesting  performance,"  he  added  critically, 
"  uneven,  but  goot.  But,"  he  went  on,  "  I  am  not 
like  you.  I  can't  sit  around,  hiding  behind  a  nick- 
name. I  must  work,  and  I  tell  you,  my  boy,"  he 
added  soberly,  "  there  iss  work  to  do.  It  will  be  a 
hard  fight.  He  has  nefer  been  beaten  yet,  that  man. 
My,  but  I  would  like  to  do  it.  We  will  surprise  him. 
That  iss  our  only  chance." 

"  Yes,"  chuckled  Mathewson.  "  And  I'm  the  sur- 
prise." 

"  That's  right,"  agreed  Bruning,  good  humoredly. 
"  It  was  a  goot  idea.  You're  a  clever  young  man. 
The  old  one  ought  to  be  proud  of  you." 

"  No,  I'm  not,"  rejoined  Mathewson.  "  She  gave 
me  the  idea,"  he  added  softly,  nodding  at  the  girl  who 
sat  by,  unconscious  of  their  talk. 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Bruning,  pursing  his  lips. 
"  Oh,  I  see."  He  nodded,  and  when  he  went  out,  a 

167 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAX 


moment  later,  he  took  Mabel's  hand  and  said  good 
night  with  increased  respect. 

When  the  play  was  over  they  drifted  out  with  the 
crowd.  They  were  as  quiet  now  as  they  had  been  gay 
on  their  way  in.  They  said  scarcely  a  word  until 
they  were  safely  in  a  cab  once  more  and  starting  up- 
town. Then  Mathewson  broke  the  silence. 

"  You  really  liked  it?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  said,  and  her  simple,  breathless 
assent  carried  with  it  the  greatest  praise  the  actors 
had  that  night,  and  more  satisfaction  to  Mathewson 
than  voluble  analysis  would  have  brought  him.  He 
did  most  of  the  talking  on  the  way  home,  or,  to  be 
more  exact,  on  the  way  to  that  corner  from  which 
they  had  started,  and  to  which  he  now  directed  the 
cabman. 

What  little  he  said  had  to  do  with  the  play,  and  it 
was  all  favorable.  He  knew  instinctively  that  the 
slightest  word  of  criticism  would  be  a  jarring  note 
to  her.  He  never  had  seen  so  good  a  Rosalind,  he 
said,  and  that  was  true.  She  really  was  a  great 
comedy  actress,  that  English  woman  with  the  dark 
hair  and  the  oval  face  and  the  rich,  musical  voice. 
He  spoke  of  the  Touchstone  also.  He  scarcely  men- 
tioned the  Jacques  or  the  Orlando.  She  had  seen  no 
flaws.  Why  should  he  mention  them?  Often  there 
were  long  moments  of  silence — delicious,  satisfying 

168 


MABEL  HAS  A  DREAM  COME  TRUE 

silence,  the  silence  of  true  intimacy — during  which  he 
watched  the  light  from  the  outside  play  upon  her 
hands,  as  they  lay  folded  in  her  lap — white,  tapering 
hands  which  seemed  akin  to  her  gentle  spirit — or  lis- 
tened to  her  breathing,  still  pent  up  and  gusty,  as 
if  the  magic  of  the  evening  was  still  working  upon 
her.  It  was  all  too  short,  that  ride,  and  he  felt  the 
depression  of  its  ending  as  he  helped  her  out  of  the 
cab. 

They  stood  together  for  a  few  seconds  after  the 
cab  had  left  them. 

"  I  don't  know  how  to  thank  you,"  she  said. 

"  Thank  me?  "  he  repeated.    "  It's  the  other  way." 

"  Oh,  no,  it  isn't,"  she  contradicted  him  gently. 
"  And  it  wasn't  wicked  of  me  to  go.  I  am  glad  I 
went." 

"  So  am  I." 

Somehow  they  were  unable  to  talk,  either  of  them. 
Words  which  had  come  so  easily  before,  seemed  to 
have  no  place  in  their  relation  at  the  moment.  The 
corner  was  almost  deserted  now,  and  still  she  delayed, 
looking  up  the  long,  homeward  street. 

"  I  suppose  I  had  better  go,"  she  said  at  last. 
"We  shall  keep  our  secret,  shall  we  not?  It  has 
been  such  a  beautiful  one." 

"  Our  secret."    The  phrase  pleased  him. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  said  quickly.  Then  he  added  more 
12  169 


THE    YARDSTICK    MAN 


slowly :  "  Yes,  I  suppose  you  had  better  go.  You  will 
be  perfectly  safe,  you  know.  I  can  watch  you  all  the 
way  there  from  here." 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  afraid,"  she  said. 

Still  she  lingered. 

"  You  won't  stay  out  too  late,  will  you  ? "  she 
asked,  with  motherly  anxiety. 

He  laughed  at  this,  looking  down  at  her. 

"  No,"  he  said.    "  I  promise." 

He  watched  her  as  she  crossed  the  roadway, 
watched  her  on  and  on  until  she  was  only  a  slender, 
swaying  mite  under  the  lights  of  the  farther  corner. 
At  last,  peering,  he  saw  her  turn  to  go  in,  far  beyond, 
and  he  waved  his  long  arm  boyishly.  He  could  not 
tell  whether  she  saw  him  or  not. 


CHAPTER    X 

MRS.   JONES   CASTS    HERSELF   LOOSE 

SHORTLY  before  four  o'clock  on  the  following 
afternoon  Mathewson,  walking  more  rapidly 
than  his  wont,  came  out  from  the  park  entrance 
and,  his  head  bowed,  his  shoulders  bent,  tramped 
across  the  bordering  street,  unmindful  of  the  clanging 
of  surface-car  bells,  the  toots  of  automobile  horns  and 
the  imprecations  of  drivers.  He  started  to  turn  into 
the  hotel  at  the  corner,  but  he  changed  his  mind  and 
walked  on.  Two  blocks  beyond  he  found  a  drug 
store  with  the  familiar  sign  of  the  telephone  pay- 
station  outside.  There  he  packed  his  long  body  into 
one  of  the  tiny  boxes  which  the  company  furnishes, 
and  closed  the  door  tightly  behind  him. 

It  had  been  as  Bruning  had  foreseen.  The  paper 
that  morning  had  brought  Carnahan's  announcement. 
It  had  been  the  news  feature  of  an  otherwise  dull  day, 
a  front-page  feature  with  heavy  black  headlines, 
which  had  stirred  him,  as  a  bugle-call  to  battle.  He 
had  re-read  the  thing  half  a  dozen  times,  his  eyes 
narrowed,  his  pulse  tingling.  The  fight  was  on. 

Shortly,  however,  the  reaction  had  come.  Never 
171 


THE    YARDSTICK 


had  a  morning  dragged  as  had  that  morning.  The 
minutes  after  ten  o'clock  seemed  like  days,  and  the 
hours  were  interminable.  He  had  wandered  about 
the  house,  restless,  absent-minded,  unusually  silent, 
for  a  time ;  and  at  last  he  had  satisfied,  momentarily, 
the  call  for  action  by  going  out  and  tramping,  he 
cared  not  where,  until  he  was  tired.  Every  down- 
town car  he  passed  on  his  walk  had  seemed  like  a  sum- 
mons to  him,  to  the  struggle  which  he  knew  was  going 
on  a  short  half-hour  away.  It  was  not  that  he  did 
not  trust  Bruning.  That  solid  little  banker  knew  a 
thousand  times  more  of  the  game  which  was  to  be 
played,  than  he  did.  It  was  not  that  he,  even  for  a 
moment,  had  seriously  considered  going  down  to  the 
Street,  and  running  the  risk  of  that  chance  recogni- 
tion by  someone  who  had  known  him  during  the  last 
two  years  in  the  West,  a  recognition  which  would  have 
wholly  upset  his  plans,  nullifying  the  only  chance 
they  had  in  their  up-hill  struggle.  Only  he  had 
longed  to  be  in  it ;  longed,  for  a  time,  almost  despe- 
rately. 

After  a  while,  however,  he  had  walked  himself  back 
into  something  like  his  customary  calm.  He  had  not 
returned  to  the  house,  however.  He  had  lunched  at 
a  little  east-side  restaurant,  to  which  his  wanderings 
had  brought  him  at  about  the  time  he  began  to  feel 
hungry.  Then  he  had  drifted  back  into  the  park 

172 


MRS.    JONES    CASTS    HERSELF   LOOSE 

once  more,  to  smoke ;  to  joke  with  an  occasional  police- 
man ;  to  make  undying  friends  of  various  small  boys, 
who  were  sailing  miniature  yachts  in  one  of  the  lakes ; 
to  feed  the  squirrels  and  to  do  numerous  casual  things, 
which  had  no  connection  whatever  with  John  P.  Car- 
nahan  or  the  Pacific  and  Eastern  railroad,  or  that 
strange  new  battle  ground  of  the  Exchange. 

This  was  the  first  time  he  had  sought  for  news,  now 
that  the  day's  struggle  was  over.  He  had  not  even 
bought  an  afternoon  paper.  He  had  forced  himself 
to  wait,  and  then  to  obtain  his  news  from  head- 
quarters. 

Shortly  he  issued  from  the  telephone  booth,  and 
wandered  slowly  back  toward  the  house.  The  raid  on 
Pacific  and  Eastern  had  been  worse  than  he  had  antic- 
ipated. They  had  hammered  the  price  down  below 
thirty  in  five  short  hours,  and  yet  strangely,  boy- 
ishly, he  was  relieved.  At  last  he  knew  what  had 
happened.  Would  the  back-fire  in  the  morning  stop 
the  destruction  which  Carnahan  had  so  carefully 
planned?  Had  they  been  able  in  that  short  time  to 
make  their  resources  equal  to  the  emergency?  He 
thought  of  the  grizzled  old  man  far  away  to  the  west- 
ward, the  sick  old  man  whose  only  chance  for  justice 
lay  in  this  impulsive  campaign,  which  he  had  under- 
taken. He  realized,  for  one  moment,  what  failure 
would  mean.  Then  he  crowded  the  thought  out  of 

173 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


his  mind.  His  youthful  buoyancy  came  back  to  him, 
that  boyish  faith  in  the  workings  of  an  eternal  justice, 
which  all  his  years  of  knocking  about  had  not  taken 
from  him.  It  was  bound  to  come  out  all  right.  This 
always  had  been  his  slogan.  Too  often  the  incidents 
of  his  varied  career  had  given  the  lie  to  it,  but  always 
he  had  rebounded  to  the  old  phrase.  It  was  bound  to 
come  out  all  right. 

He  went  up  the  steps,  two  at  a  time,  and  pushed 
the  bell  vigorously. 

"  Hello,  Higgins,"  he  cried,  as  if  he  had  not  a 
trouble  in  the  world,  when  the  butler  opened  the  door 
for  him. 

Higgins's  mouth  twitched.     He  almost  smiled. 

"  There  is  a  gentleman  waiting  upstairs  for  you, 
sir,"  he  said  with  his  customary  gravity. 

"  Oh,  all  right,"  responded  Mathewson.  And 
down  the  hall  and  up  the  stairs  he  went,  humming 
irresponsibly  a  jerky  tune,  the  words  of  which  began 
something  like  this : 

"  Now  Jim  he  was  a  horse  thief,  a  murderer  and  sich, 
Heigho  tiddledy  aye  tiddledy  aye  di  oh. 
He  did  it  as  a  business  and  they  say  he  struck  it  rich, 
Heigho  tiddledy  aye  tiddledy  aye  di  oh." 

He  reached  the  library  doorway.  The  afternoon 
was  waning  and  the  room  was  dusky.  In  the  gather- 

174 


MRS.    JONES    CASTS    HERSELF   LOOSE 

ing  twilight  he  recognized  at  once,  however,  the 
small  man  who  rose  by  the  window  and  came  to 
meet  him. 

"  Hello,  parson !  "  he  cried.  "  Do  you  know,"  he 
added  ruefully,  "  I  clean  forgot  about  you.  Have 
you  been  waiting  long?  " 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Mr.  Wright,  a  nervous  anxiety 
showing  in  his  manner.  "  Only  a  few  minutes." 

They  drifted,  naturally,  across  to  the  windows 
where  it  was  lighter. 

"Well?"  asked  Mathewson. 

"  Well,"  repeated  Mr.  Wright,  with  an  anxious 
sigh.  "  I  have  thought  it  over,  Matty."  He  hesi- 
tated, palpably,  as  if  he  were  still  undecided. 

Mathewson  said  nothing  to  help  him,  however.  He 
merely  waited.  At  last,  with  a  quick,  nervous 
gesture,  Mr.  Wright  plunged  his  hand  into  his  pocket 
and,  drawing  forth  a  strip  of  paper,  he  pressed  it 
into  Mathewson's  hand. 

"  There  it  is,"  he  said.  He  sighed  again,  however, 
as  Mathewson  took  it  and,  without  looking  at  it,  put 
it  in  his  pocket. 

"  Thirteen  hundred?  "  asked  Mathewson. 

Mr.  Wright  nodded  abstractedly. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  It  left  just  seventeen  dollars 
and  forty-three  cents." 

"  All  right,  parson.     Would  you  like  a  receipt  ?     I 
175 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


haven't  the  stock  with  me,  you  know.  I'll  have  to 
give  that  to  you  later." 

"  Oh,  no,  I  don't  need  a  receipt  from  you,  Matty," 
said  Mr.  Wright  quickly. 

"  Of  course,"  agreed  Mathewson,  "  the  check  is  a 
receipt.  Heigho — "  he  began  the  song  once  more. 
It  suddenly  had  become  too  serious  for  him,  this 
taking  the  preacher's  money,  even  if  he  had  no  inten- 
tion of  running  any  risks  with  it.  He  could  not  bear 
the  worried  look  in  the  good  man's  eyes,  and  he  fell 
back  upon  sheer  carelessness  to  drive  it  away. 

The  effect  was  opposite,  however.  Mr.  Wright 
broke  in  immediately,  his  hand  on  Mathewson's  arm 
as  if  to  stop  by  physical  force  the  light  song  which 
seemed  jarringly  out  of  place  to  him.  They  meant 
so  much  to  him,  those  hard-earned  savings. 

"  You  understand,  Matty,"  he  said  rather  sharply, 
*'  that  I'm  putting  this  wholly  in  your  hands.  I 
trust  you  implicitly.  I  know  nothing  about  it.  I 
do  not  know  even  the  name  of  the  railroad." 

"  The  Pacific  and  Eastern." 

"  Pacific  and  Eastern,"  repeated  Mr.  Wright, 
shaking  his  head.  "  I  have  never  even  heard  of  it. 
You  are  sure  it  is  safe,  Matty  ?  "  he  asked,  his  former 
anxiety  revived  and  increased. 

"  I'm  sure  you  won't  lose,  parson."  Mathewson, 
realizing  the  preacher's  trouble,  rested  one  big  hand 

176 


MKS.    JONES    CASTS    HERSELF   LOOSE 

upon  his  shoulder.  "  You  just  leave  it  to  me.  Don't 
you  worry  about  it,  not  for  a  minute.  There's  noth- 
ing for  you  to  worry  about." 

The  preacher  looked  up  and  smiled  weakly.  The 
hand  on  his  shoulder  gave  him  a  momentary  feeling  of 
reliance. 

"  All  right,  Matty,"  he  said.  "  I  am  being  very 
inconsiderate,  I  fear.  I  hope  it  will  not  be  too  much 
bother  to  you." 

"  Bother,  parson  ?     Nonsense !  " 

"  I  meant  to  come  down  earlier,"  went  on  the 
preacher.  "  I  have  had  a  very  busy  day." 

He  did  not  tell  Mathewson  that  he  and  Mother 
Wright  had  sat  up  until  almost  daybreak,  the  night 
before,  talking  about  this  very  slip  of  paper  which 
he  had  just  given  him ;  nor  how,  in  all  the  toil  of  the 
day,  this  one  thing  had  been  uppermost  in  his  mind. 

"  Time  enough."  Mathewson  changed  the  sub- 
ject. "  Those  are  two  fine  boys  you  have  up  there, 
parson."  He  had  made  up  his  mind  swiftly  not  to 
tell  the  preacher  what  had  happened  to  Pacific  and 
Eastern  stock  during  the  day.  It  would  only  trouble 
him  the  more,  and  to  no  purpose.  He  regretted  even 
having  told  him  the  name  of  the  road.  That  had  been 
inevitable,  however. 

Before  Mr.  Wright  could  answer,  Mabel  came  hur- 
rying in. 

177 


THE    YAEDSTICK    MAN 


"  Why,  father?  "  she  cried.  "  How  long  have  you 
been  here?  Higgins  only  just  told  me."  She 
stopped,  glancing  at  Mathewson.  "  I  hope  I'm  not 
interfering." 

The  preacher's  arm  had  gone  about  her  shoulders 
caressingly. 

"  Speaking  of  boys,  Matty,  this  is  a  pretty  good 
girl,"  he  said  proudly. 

"  Oh,  you're  prejudiced,"  she  said,  blushing. 

"  Well,  I'm  proud  of  her,"  began  the  preacher 
fondly.  "  She  is  honest  and  true  and  kind  and — 

"  Oh,  don't,  father,"  whispered  the  girl,  embar- 
rassed as  much  by  Mathewson's  look,  perhaps,  as  by 
the  preacher's  words. 

Mr.  Wright  probably  would  have  persisted,  with 
true  parental  obstinacy,  had  not  Mrs.  Jones  inter- 
rupted them. 

"  Roger !  "  she  called,  while  she  was  still  out  in  the 
hallway. 

"  Hello." 

"  Oh,  Roger !  " — relief  showing  in  her  voice,  as  she 
came  bustling  in — "  what  shall  I  do  about  this  ?  " 
Then,  seeing  the  others,  "  Oh,  Mr.  Wright,"  she  said, 
"  I  didn't  know  you  were  here.  Strange,  too.  I  was 
just  thinking  about  you,  not  ten  minutes  ago.  Funny 
how  your  mind  works.  I  was  going  to  ask  you — " 
she  broke  off  suddenly.  "  But  oh,  this  telegram," 

178 


MRS.    JONES    CASTS    HERSELF   LOOSE 

she  cried,  holding  up  the  yellow  envelope  in  her  hand. 
"  What  can  I  do,  Roger?  Higgins,  the  idiot,  signed 
for  it.  It  isn't  for  any  of  us.  It  is  for  a  Mr.  Allen 
something-or-other."  She  held  the  envelope  up  to 
the  fading  light,  and  lifted  her  lorgnette  to  read  the 
address.  "  Allen " 

A  surprising  thing  followed,  surprising  even  to 
Mathewson,  who  stood  by,  numb  and  indecisive.  Be- 
fore she  could  finish  the  name,  Mabel,  pouncing  for- 
ward, snatched  the  telegram  rudely  from  her  hands. 

"  Why,  Mabel !  "  gasped  Mrs.  Jones. 

"  Mabel ! "  repeated  Mr.  Wright  with  quick 
severity. 

The  girl  did  not  meet  his  gaze.  She  held  the  tel- 
egram protectingly  behind  her  back. 

"  It's — it's  mine,  that's  all,"  she  managed  to  say. 

"  Yours  ?  "  demanded  Mrs.  Jones,  vexation  redden- 
ing her  cheeks.  "  Why,  how  can  it  be  yours  ?  Your 
name  isn't  Allen  something-or-other,  and  you're  not  a 
Mister." 

At  her  sharp  tone  Mr.  Wright  hastened,  protect- 
ingly, to  his  daughter's  assistance. 

"It  may  be  merely  an  assumed  name,"  he  sug- 
gested. 

"  Yes,  that's  it,"  said  the  girl,  desperately.     "  I- 
I  wrote  something.     I— I—      Oh,  don't  look  at  me 
like  that,  father." 

179 


THE    YARDSTICK    MAN 


"  There,  there."  The  preacher  patted  her  shoul- 
der comfortingly.  He  was  not  the  man  to  be  able  to 
stand  that  strained  appeal  in  his  daughter's  voice.  "  I 
was  just  surprised,  that's  all.  You  wrote  something, 
eh,"  he  continued  gently,  "  and  you  thought  you 
would  keep  it  a  secret?  Well,  I  won't  tell,  not  even 
your  mother.  So.  That  reminds  me.  It  is  getting 
late."  He  turned  his  watch  to  the  light.  "  Ah,  yes, 
later  than  I  thought.  I  must  be  going  home. 
Good-by,  Matty." 

"  Good-by,  sir,"  said  Mathewson,  taking  the 
preacher's  hand,  but  gazing  at  the  downcast  face  of 
the  girl  beyond. 

"  You're  sure  it's  all  right  ?  "  insisted  Mr.  Wright, 
remembering. 

Mathewson  only  nodded,  and  the  preacher  turned 
from  him,  somewhat  unsatisfied,  to  the  girl. 

"  Good-by,  little  Allen  something-or-other,"  he 
said  affectionately.  There  was  no  immediate  re- 
sponse, and  he  saw  that  her  shoulders  were  shaking 
tremulously.  He  understood  only  that  he  was 
making  it  harder  for  the  girl.  "  And  you  said 
there  was  something  you  wanted  to  ask  me,  Mrs. 
Jones  ?  "  he  asked  quietly,  moving  toward  the  door 
as  he  spoke,  so  that  she  was  forced  to  go  with 
him. 

"  Why,  yes,"  she  said,  half  under  her  breath,  with 
180 


MKS.  JONES  CASTS  HEKSELF  LOOSE 

a  backward  glance  at  the  girl.  "  But  I  can't  get  over 
Mabel.  Such  a  strange  thing.  Well,"  she  went  on, 
at  his  stern  glance,  "  it's  about  a  servant.  My 
laundress  has  left  me.  You  know,"  she  ran  on,  every- 
thing else  forgotten  now  as  her  household  woes  came 
uppermost,  "  it  doesn't  make  any  difference  how 
much  you  do  for  them.  Talk  about  ingratitude. 
And  I  thought  perhaps  you  would  know  of  some  good 
woman  out  in  Waiteville.  Some  of  the  specimens  the 
agencies  send  are  awful,  and  Edward  is  so  particu- 
lar." 

They  were  out  in  the  hallway  now,  and  what  Mr. 
Wright  said  in  reply,  the  pair  left  in  the  library  could 
not  have  heard.  The  dull  sound  of  the  voices,  grow- 
ing more  indistinct  as  Mrs.  Jones  and  the  preacher 
descended  the  stairway,  only  served  to  make  more 
potent  the  silence  in  the  room  they  had  left  behind 
them. 

For  some  moments  neither  Mabel  nor  Mathewson 
stirred.  At  last,  however,  he  moved  softly  toward 
her,  softly  as  if  he  realized  all  that  was  passing  in  the 
girl's  mind. 

"  Thanks,  little  pardner,"  he  said,  very  gently. 

Without  looking  at  him  she  gave  him  the  telegram, 
which  had  been  crumpled  nervously  in  her  hand.  For 
some  seconds  more  she  stared,  unseeing,  at  the  door 
through  which  her  father  had  gone.  Then  in  a  tiny, 

181 


THE    YARDSTICK    MAN 


breathless  voice,  she  whispered,  as  if  she  were  trying 
to  make  herself  realize  what  she  had  done : 

"  I  lied— I  lied  to  him." 

With  a  little  sobbing  exclamation  she  sank  limply 
in  the  chair  beside  the  table,  and  buried  her  face  in 
her  hands.  His  eyes  had  not  left  her,  and  now  they 
became  yearning,  compassionate.  He  forgot  the 
telegram  which  his  fingers,  mechanically,  had  started 
to  open,  and  he  leaned  over  her  impulsively. 

"  I'm  sorry,  little  pardner,"  he  said,  his  voice  shak- 
ing with  an  emotion  which  surprised  him.  "  It  was 
my  fault.  It  was  I  who  lied,  not  you."  For  a 
second  he  lifted  his  eyes  to  the  doorway.  He  could 
still  hear  the  murmur  of  conversation  from  below. 
The  preacher  was  not  yet  gone.  Then  he  said  cheer- 
ily and  quickly,  fearing,  perhaps,  that  his  resolution 
would  weaken  if  he  delayed.  "  I'll  call  him  back, 
little  pardner.  We'll  tell  him  the  truth." 

How  much  it  might  mean,  he  had  realized  in  that 
swift,  debating  second.  It  would  be  the  end  of  his 
incognito.  It  might  be  fatal.  Everything,  it 
seemed,  depended  upon  that.  It  would  have  been 
disclosed  moments  before,  however,  if  it  had  not  been 
for  her,  and  she  was  sobbing  there  before  him.  De- 
liberately, he  started  for  the  door. 

Almost  instantly  the  girl  slipped  to  her  feet. 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  called,  through  her  tears.    "  Please." 


M11S.    JONES    CASTS    HERSELF   LOOSE 

Then,  a  rainbow  of  a  smile  glinting  through,  she 
added :  "  It's  wicked,  but— I'm  glad  I  lied." 

With  an  exclamation  which  she  scarcely  understood 
he  swung  about  to  her. 

"  Little  pardner !  "  he  cried. 

The  slamming  of  the  outer  door  below  punctuated 
his  words.  Mr.  Wright  was  gone.  They  smiled 
frankly  into  each  other's  eyes. 

"  She'll  ask  questions."  The  girl  brushed  aside 
her  tears,  with  quick  intuition.  "  She'll  see  that  I 
have  been  crying." 

Almost  before  he  had  grasped  her  meaning,  she  had 
dodged  lithely  past  him.  In  the  doorway  she  turned, 
breathless,  listening  as  if  measuring  the  time  she  could 
safely  stay. 

"  What  did  it  say?  "  she  asked  in  a  half  whisper. 

"  I  don't  know.  I'll  see,"  he  replied,  his  voice  low- 
ered to  meet  hers.  His  fingers  tore  at  the  envelope, 
but  his  eyes  did  not  leave  the  slender,  swaying  figure, 
poised  in  the  soft  shadows  of  the  doorway.  Her 
quick  ear,  however,  had  caught  the  sound  of  the  foot- 
steps below. 

"  Not  now,"  she  said.  "  There  isn't  time.  You'll 
tell  me  later,  won't  you?  "  and  without  waiting  for  a 
reply  she  vanished. 

For  a  moment  he  stood  there,  dumbly  gazing  at  the 
place  where  she  had  been ;  the  lithe,  sprite-like  figure, 

183 


the  tearful  eyes  seen  dimly,  and  the  sweet  girlish 
voice,  which,  even  now,  seemed  to  be  echoing  back  to 
him  from  the  dark  beyond  of  the  hallway.  Then, 
abruptly,  he  swung  about  and  carried  the  open  tel- 
egram to  the  better  light  by  the  window.  He  read 
the  words  slowly,  and,  momentarily,  he  forgot  every- 
thing else. 

"  D.  H.  operated  on  this  morning,"  it  read. 
"  Condition  serious,  but  are  hopeful." 

His  hand  dropped  limply  to  his  side.  "  Operated 
on.  Condition  serious,  but  hopeful."  The  words 
reiterated  themselves  in  his  mind.  Of  course  they 
were  hopeful,  he  thought,  rallying  a  second.  They 
must  be  hopeful,  and  yet — it  was  "  serious."  He  had 
not  dreamed  that  it  could  be  as  bad  as  this.  He  must 
find  out  and  at  once.  His  mind  anxiously  began  to 
form  the  words  of  a  returning  telegram,  words  cal- 
culated to  bring  no  uncertain  reply. 

The  soft  swish  of  skirts  behind  him  startled  him  to 
himself.  He  crammed  the  leering,  yellow  sheet  into 
his  pocket,  and  stood,  peering  wistfully  out  into  the 
gathering  darkness. 

"Heigho  tiddledy  aye  tiddledy  aye  di  oh,"  he 
hummed,  the  old  Mathewson  without  an  evident  care 
in  the  world.  He  broke  off,  however,  in  the  middle 
of  the  refrain,  because  his  throat  seemed  to  contract 
sharply  and  choke  him. 

184 


MRS.    JONES    CASTS    HERSELF   LOOSE 

"  Where's  Mabel?  "  asked  Mrs.  Jones,  coming  up 
beside  him. 

She  was  breathing  rapidly.  Perhaps  it  was  the 
stairs.  Perhaps  it  was  something  else.  All  day  she 
had  been  alone,  brooding,  yearning  over  herself  intro- 
spectively,  letting  her  feelings  run  riot. 

"  I  don't  know  where  she  went,"  replied  Mathew- 
son,  with  apparent  indifference. 

For  some  seconds  she  stood  at  his  elbow.  Far  be- 
yond, over  the  jagged  tops  of  the  houses,  the  red 
after-glow  lit  up  the  farther  sky,  its  reflection  glow- 
ing upon  their  faces.  Behind  them  the  shadows  of 
the  room  grew  darker,  rapidly,  as  the  light  faded. 

"  Queer  girl,"  remarked  Mrs.  Jones  in  a  low  voice, 
as  if  hushed  by  the  dreamy,  mystical  glory  of  the 
dying  day,  and  the  stealthy,  enshrouding  night. 
"  Now  that  telegram,"  she  went  on,  the  expression- 
less, far-away  tones  making  her  words  unimportant, 
as  if  they  had  to  do  with  merely  an  aside  of  her 
mind.  "  I  don't  believe — "  She  looked  up  slowly 
at  the  tall  man  beside  her.  Then  she  sighed  softly. 
"  Roger,"  she  said,  "  you're  thinking  too  much  about 

her." 

"About  Mabel?"  returned  Mathewson.  He 
scarcely  had  heard  her,  save  for  the  last  phrase. 
"  Oh,  no." 

"  Well,  she  is  about  you,"  she  said.  "  I'm  sure  of 
13  185 


THE    YARDSTICK    MAN 


it.  And,  Roger,  you  break  hearts  just  like  that." 
She  snapped  her  fingers. 

"  Do  I  ?  "  he  asked,  assuming  his  old  bantering 
tone  as  he  looked  down  at  her.  Then  he  pulled  him- 
self up  sharply.  Something  about  her  strangely 
startled  him.  Was  it  the  weird  glow  upon  her  face? 
Was  it  the  odd  little  thrill  in  her  voice  as  she  spoke  ? 
Was  it  her  unusual  plastic  stillness?  She  was  very 
close  to  him ;  their  arms  almost  touched.  "  Why,"  he 
added  uneasily,  "  what's  the  matter  with  you  to-night, 
Dot?" 

She  glanced  up  at  him  for  a  second,  and  then 
looked  away. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  she  said,  her  voice  soft 
and  languorous.  "  I'm  a  little  tired  and — lonely, 
I  guess.  Isn't  that  sky  lovely?"  She  sighed  once 
more.  "  I've  seen  so  little  of  you  since  you've  been 
here,  Roger,"  she  went  on  musingly.  "  That  girl  is 
always  about,  and  then  you've  been  away  all  day, 
and  last  evening  too.  Perhaps  I'm  jealous,  I  don't 
know." 

"  Bosh,"  laughed  Mathewson,  with  a  noisy  hearti- 
ness which  contrasted  jarringly  with  the  dull,  dreamy 
monotone  in  which  she  spoke.  "  You  said  you  were 
tired.  Let  me  get  you  a  chair." 

He  turned  away  with  the  words,  but  her  hand 
caught  his  arm  and  stopped  him.  The  smoldering  fire 

186 


MRS.    JONES    CASTS    HERSELF   LOOSE 

in  her  eyes  suddenly  flared  up,  and  her  face  seemed 
whiter  in  the  glow. 

"  No,"  she  said  huskily,  but  with  a  new  brittle 
vigor.  "  I  don't  want  a  chair.  I  don't  want  any- 
thing I  can  have.  Oh,  you  don't  know,"  she  cried, 
with  a  sharp  intake  of  breath.  "  Once  I  wanted  a 
fine  house  and  servants  and  money.  I  hate  it  all  now- 
adays. It's  all  a  sham.  I  want  something  real.  I 
want  to  be  happy."  She  faltered,  as  if  awed  at  her 
own  words. 

"  Hold  on,  Dot.    Hold  on." 

"  I  won't  hold  on,  Roger.  I'm  desperate,  wicked, 
anything  you  like."  The  words  came  in  a  torrent 
now.  "  Oh,  I've  tried  to  be  happy,  and  I  can't.  I 
want  to  go  away  somewhere  and  die — or  live,  Roger, 
live !  Do  you  understand  ?  "  There  was  an  instant's 
straining  pause.  "  Not  like  this,"  she  moaned.  "  I'm 
no  good  to  anybody  here." 

"  That's  not  true,  Dot." 

"  It  is  true,"  she  cried,  her  voice  trembling  with 
her  shaking  body.  "  I'm  just  here,  that's  all.  That's 
the  way  with  a  lot  of  wives,  I  guess.  And  I  never  do 
anything  right;  and  I  spend  too  much  money;  and 
—well,  that's  about  all.  I  want  to  be  of  some  use, 
and  oh,  I  want  love.  He  doesn't  love  anything  but 
business  and  money  and  himself.  Oh,  I'm  wiser  now. 
Love.  That's  the  one  thing.  I  don't  care  what  else 

187 


THE    YAEDSTICK   MAN 


I  give  up.  I  want  love  and  the  happiness  other  peo- 
ple have.  I — I — "  her  voice  broke  as  she  peered  up 
into  his  face,  "  I  thought  you  would  care,  but — per- 
haps— you  don't.  Oh,  Roger !  Roger !  " 

She  wavered  limply  toward  him  and,  as  he  caught 
her  arms,  she  quivered  sharply  and  turned  her  face 
with  sudden  abandon  up  to  his. 

"  Roger !  "  she  whispered,  "  I  don't  care  any  more 
— about  anything.  I " 

His  big  hands  closed  upon  her  arm  with  a  harsh 
grip. 

"  Dot !  "  he  said,  with  slow,  even  emphasis,  "  do 
you  want  me  to  make  love  to  you  ?  Is  that  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Roger,"  she  panted,  "  don't  ask  me  that." 
She  was  trembling  like  a  leaf  now.  Only  his  steady 
grip  seemed  to  hold  her  up.  "  I — I  don't  know  what 
I  want." 

"  Think  a  minute,"  he  commanded  in  the  same  even 
tone. 

She  bowed  her  head,  sobbing. 

"  No,  no,"  she  whispered  after  a  second,  "  I  want 
to  do  right,  Roger,  but — oh,  don't  hold  me  so  tight," 
she  cried  out  with  pain.  "  You  hurt." 

"  I  meant  to.  Now  sit  down—"  he  forced  her 
almost  harshly  upon  the  window  seat  by  which  they 
stood — "  while  I  turn  on  the  lights.  There's  a  bogie 
man  in  the  dark,  Dot,"  he  added  more  gently. 

188 


MRS.    JONES    CASTS    HERSELF   LOOSE 

The  glare  had  faded  from  the  West  by  now,  and 
only  shafts  of  dull  rose  color  shot  up  into  the  growing 
darkness.  The  room,  except  by  the  windows,  had 
sunk  away  into  indistinguishable  dusk.  Even  the 
lights  in  the  hall  beyond  had  not  been  lit,  and  under 
the  cover  of  the  protecting  shadow  the  woman  cowed, 
half  bitter,  half  humble,  wholly  miserable.  At  the 
suggestion  of  lights  she  sprang  to  her  feet  and 
clutched  his  arm  desperately. 

"  No,"  she  begged  passionately,  "  no.  Wait  a 
minute,  please.  I  can't  stand  it.  I'd  be  ashamed. 
Oh,  do  have  pity  on  me,  Roger,  just  for  a  minute." 

He  hesitated  at  her  appeal,  although  all  that  was 
wisest  and  sanest  in  him  urged  him  the  other  way. 

"  Buck  up,  Dot,"  he  said,  temporizing. 

"  Oh,  Roger,"  she  moaned,  "  what  can  you  think 
of  me?" 

"  That  you're  one  of  the  best  women  in  the  world, 

Dot." 

"  Oh,  no,  you  can't,"  she  sobbed,  burying  her  face 
in  her  hands,  her  body  shivering  with  choppy  cross- 
currents of  emotion.  She  had  cast  herself  loose,  and 
now  she  was  groping  blindly  for  moorings ;  any  moor- 
ings, so  long  as  she  could  feel  that  she  was  no  longer 

adrift. 

"  I'm  not,"  she  whispered  huskily.  "  I'm  wicked. 
I  meant  every  word  of  it.  Oh,  Roger,  I  didn't  really 

189 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


want  you  to  make  love  to  me,  but  if  you  had — I — oh, 
but  you  didn't,"  she  whispered.  "  Thank  God,  you 
didn't.  But  I  was  so  miserable  and  lonely  and  un- 
happy. Is  it  wrong  to  want  to  be  happy,  Roger?  " 
she  ended  in  passionate  entreaty. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said.  He  was  still  gazing  back 
into  the  dark  room,  indecisive,  manlike,  between  what 
was  best  for  her  and  what  she  wished.  Then,  trying 
to  meet  her  need,  he  went  on  quietly :  "  They  say,  you 
know,  that  the  more  you  chase  happiness,  the  faster 
it  runs  away ;  if  you  turn  your  back  on  it,  it  comes  to 
you.  That's  what  they  say.  I  don't  know.  But 
don't  you  worry,  Dot.  You'll  work  it  out  all  right. 

And  now  I'll " 

"  Do  you  think  so?  "  she  broke  in  eagerly.  She 
paused  a  fraction  of  a  second  for  his  answer,  but  he 
said  nothing.  He  was  leaning  away  from  her,  keenly 
alert,  for  his  ears  had  caught  a  slight,  shuffling  sound 
near  where  the  door  lay  beyond  in  the  darkness. 

"  Yes,  I  will,  Roger,"  she  declared  more  hopefully. 
"  I  will.  I  give  you  my  word.  I've  made  a  mis- 
take." Her  hand  climbed  quickly  to  his  shoulder, 
and  she  rested  there,  soothed  by  reliance  upon  his 
strong  will,  and  upon  that  steady  friendliness  which 
had  become  momentarily  the  mooring  she  had  sought. 
"  Roger,  you  dear  old  boy,"  she  cried  softly,  "  you're 

so  good  to  me.     You " 

190 


MRS.  JONES  CASTS  HERSELF  LOOSE 

"  Oh,  no,  Dot."  He  threw  off  her  hands  almost 
roughly,  and  crossing  the  room  with  a  long,  decisive 
stride,  switched  on  the  lights. 

"  There,  that's  better,"  he  said,  glancing  about 
him  and,  immediately,  out  into  the  black  hallway. 
"  Where  do  you  turn  on  the  lights  in  the  hall,  Dot?  " 
he  demanded. 

She  had  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  as  the 
lights  went  on. 

"  Higgins  will  do  that,"  she  answered,  in  a  muffled 
voice. 

In  spite  of  himself,  Mathewson  smiled.  He  had 
heard  that  dull  noise  of  some  one  stumbling,  which 
had  come  from  the  outer  hallway  just  as  she  spoke. 
He  watched  her  for  a  second,  to  be  sure  she  had  not 
heard  it  also.  Then  the  smile  widened  irrepressibly 
into  a  grin. 

"  Oh,  all  right,"  he  said,  as  he  came  back  to  where 
she  half  leaned,  half  stood  beside  the  window. 

Now,  under  the  glare  of  the  lights,  the  whole  affair 
became  humorous  to  him.  He  had  his  own  conjec- 
ture, quickly  formulated,  as  to  the  identity  of  the 
intruder  who  had  withdrawn  so  stealthily  into  the 
farther  darkness,  and  that  conjecture  amused  him. 
It  brought  back  memories,  fugitive,  amusing  memo- 
ries. The  situation  seemed  so  much  a  part  of  that 
general  perversity  of  things  which  always  had  ap- 

191 


THE    YAEDSTICK   MAN 


pealed  to  his  humor.  His  eyes  grew  grave,  how- 
ever, as  he  looked  at  her  bowed  head,  and  as  he  saw 
the  little  aftermath  of  convulsive  trembling  at  her 
shoulders.  She  must  pull  herself  together  now  and 
quickly. 

"  Dot !  "  he  commanded,  as  he  stood  beside  her. 

Slowly  she  drew  her  hands  away.  Her  face  was 
tear-streaked  and  woe-begone.  She  did  not  look  at 
him  at  once. 

"  Oh,  Roger !     I'm  so  ashamed." 

To  her  surprise  he  laughed  aloud. 

"  Oh,  you're  all  right,  Dot,"  he  said,  assuming  his 
most  happy-go-lucky  air.  "  All  you  need  " — he  low- 
ered his  voice  consciously — "  is  trouble  and  kids." 

"  Roger !  "  she  exclaimed  in  a  shocked  voice. 

"  Of  course,"  he  drawled  recklessly,  "  there  are 
some  people  who  say  they're  synonymous — cynical 
married  persons,  usually,  who  know  what  they're  talk- 
ing about.  Now,  you  see,  I've  never  had  either  one. 
Therefore  I  can  advise  you." 

"  Roger !  "  she  exclaimed  again  in  utter  amazement. 

"  What's  the  matter?  "  he  laughed.  "  Oh,  I  for- 
got," he  added  drolly.  "  Rich  people  are  so  injudi- 
cious." He  was  mimicking  her  tone  and  words  of 
the  day  before.  "  Two  or  three  children  might  be  all 
right,  but  none — !  "  He  threw  up  his  hands  in  well- 
simulated  horror. 

192 


MKS.    JONES    CASTS    HERSELF   LOOSE 

"  Roger,  you're  incorrigible,"  she  said,  but  she  half 
smiled  as  she  said  it. 

"Of  course."  He  grinned  irresponsibly.  "Blessed 
are  the  incorrigible,  for  they  alone  shall  be  known  for 
what  they  really  are.  That's  not  a  bad  beatitude, 
eh,  Dot  ?  "  He  lit  a  cigarette  as  he  spoke,  and  punc- 
tuated his  words  with  the  first  few  puffs  of  smoke. 

"  You're  trying  to  make  me  forget,"  she  said  with 
sudden  conviction. 

"  To  err  is  human,"  he  rejoined,  waving  his  long 
first  finger  at  her,  "  to  forget,  divine."  And  then, 
chuckling,  he  ran  off  into  the  refrain  of  his  song: 
"  Heigho  tiddledy  aye 

"  But  I  don't  feel  like  laughing." 

"  Another  beatitude,"  he  drawled,  winking  at  her 
gayly.  "  Blessed  is  she  who  laughs  when  she  doesn't 
feel  like  it,  for  if  she  keeps  it  up  long  enough,  she 
will  feel  like  it." 

Something  in  the  steadiness  of  his  eyes  nullified  the 
lightness  of  his  manner.  She  dabbed  at  her  eyes 
vigorously  with  her  handkerchief. 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  so,"  she  said  more  naturally,  and 
passing  him  she  went  to  the  table,  where  she  opened 
a  book  and  pretended  to  glance  at  the  blurring  page. 
Under  the  spur  of  his  badinage  her  mind  was  return- 
ing to  its  normal  channels.  Commonplace  routine 
began  to  stifle  the  gulping  misery  which  had  been  in 

193 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


her  throat.     She  glanced  down  at  her  watch,  which 
hung  at  her  breast. 

"  I  think  I'll  go  upstairs,"  she  said. 

"All  right."  He  stood  where  she  had  left  him, 
his  glance  alternating  from  her  back,  as  she  stood 
by  the  table,  to  the  dark  doorway.  "  And  say,  Dot," 
he  added,  malevolently  raising  his  voice,  "  of  course 
you'll  turn  on  the  lights  in  the  hall  as  you  go." 

"  Yes,"  she  said  dully. 

She  started  slowly  across  the  room,  without  glan- 
cing at  him,  a  tired,  humbled  figure.  The  brisk 
elasticity  of  step  and  the  proud  sweep  of  movement 
were  missing.  He  realized  it  as  he  watched  her,  and 
his  usually  slow  anger  surged  up  within  him,  anger 
at  Jones  for  bringing  her  to  such  a  pass,  anger  at 
himself  for  having  unwittingly  helped.  What  a  mis- 
take he  had  made  in  coming  into  the  Jones's  house- 
hold !  Of  course  he  had  not  dreamed,  even  a  half  hour 
ago,  of  even  the  possibility  of  anything  like  this. 
But  he  blamed  himself  bitterly. 

"  I  can't  understand  why  it  hasn't  been  done  be- 
fore," she  said  in  the  same  blank  tone. 

A  noisy  cough  from  the  hallway  made  her  halt, 
startled,  near  the  door.  Mathewson  smiled,  in  spite 
of  himself,  a  smile  which  broadened  to  a  grin  as  Pro- 
fessor Trowbridge,  still  coughing  and  clearing  his 
throat,  appeared  on  the  threshold. 

194 


MRS.  JONES  CASTS  HERSELF  LOOSE 

"  Why,  here's  the  professor,"  drawled  Mathewson. 
"  This  is  a  surprise." 

Professor  Trowbridge  ignored  him. 

"  Good  evening,  Dorothy,"  he  said  stiffly.  He  had 
an  evening  paper  in  his  hand,  to  help  carry  out  the 
impression  that  he  had  just  come  in  from  outdoors. 

"  Why,  professor !  "  she  exclaimed,  in  her  surprise. 
"  I  thought  you  were  going  to  be  out  for  dinner." 

"  I  was." 

"  But  you  changed  your  mind?  " 

"  It  is  not  my  habit  to  change  my  mind,  Dorothy." 
He  became  sententiously  more  at  his  ease,  as  he  real- 
ized from  her  manner  that  she  did  not  suspect  him. 
He  carefully  avoided  Mathewson's  steady,  humorous 
gaze,  however. 

"Oh,  then  you  won't  be  here,"  said  Mrs.  Jones, 
with  evident  relief.  "  You  see  I  should  have  to  change 
my  order  for  dinner,  and  the  servants  grumble  so 
about  changed  orders." 

The  professor  had  stalked  to  the  table,  and  having 
put  down  the  paper,  he  was  now  taking  his  spec- 
tacles from  his  pocket.  With  his  customary,  authori- 
tative manner,  as  if  he  were  elucidating  a  formula  or 
theorem  in  his  classroom,  he  explained: 

"  You  misunderstand  me,  Dorothy.  I  never  change 
my  mind.  That  is  my  invariable  rule.  Circum- 
stances, however,  change  my  plans.  It  is  so  to-night. 

195 


THE    YAEDSTICK    MAN 


I  shall  be  here  for  dinner.  I  trust  I  shall  not  make 
trouble." 

"  Your  invariable  rule,"  repeated  Mathewson's  slow 
drawl,  as  he  flecked  carelessly  the  ash  from  his  ciga- 
rette. 

"  What's  that,  sir?  "  demanded  the  professor. 

"  An  excellent  phrase,  professor !  "  Mathewson 
nodded  at  him,  his  face  grave  but  his  eyes  twinkling. 
Then  he  turned  away  and  sat  down  before  the  tele- 
phone desk  where,  unmindful  of  the  professor's  glare, 
he  proceeded  to  write  upon  the  back  of  an  envelope 
which  he  drew  from  his  pocket,  stopping  from  time 
to  time  to  smoke  fitfully  in  a  concentrated,  aloof 
way. 

"  Oh,  no,"  Mrs.  Jones  had  declared  at  once.  "  I'm 
so  glad,  of  course.  I'll  ring  now  and  explain  to  them. 
I  always  believe,"  she  added,  "  in  explaining  things 
to  your  servants.  Then  if  they  don't  like  it,  it's  their 
own  fault."  She  turned  toward  the  push  button  in 
the  wall  beside  the  door. 

"  Mr.  Botts,  with  whom  I  was  to  have  dined,"  ex- 
plained the  professor,  rejoicing  inwardly  that 
Mathewson  had  eliminated  himself  from  the  conversa- 
tion, "  has  unexpected  business  engagements.  There 
has  been  a  disturbance  of  some  kind  in  Wall  Street, 
I  believe." 

"  Disturbance  in  Wall  Street? "  Mrs.  Jones's 
196 


MRS.  JONES  CASTS  HERSELF  LOOSE 

hand  fell  away  from  the  button  which  she  was  about 
to  press.  "  That  explains  it." 

"Explains  what,  Dorothy?" 

"  Why  Edward  had  a  clerk  telephone  me,  about 
two  o'clock,  that  he  wouldn't  be  home  until  after  six. 
A  clerk !  "  Something  of  her  old  impatient  rebellion 
came  into  her  voice  and  look.  "  I  was  so  angry.  It 
does  seem  as  though  Edward  might  make  time  to 
telephone  me  himself  about —  She  faltered. 
Mathewson  had  looked  up  slowly  from  his  writing, 
and  now  she  caught  his  eye.  "  But,"  she  added  with  a 
doubtful  sigh,  "  I  suppose  he  was  very  busy.  I — I 
hope  it  wasn't  anything  serious.  Let  me  see,"  her 
brows  puckering,  "  there  was  something  I  was  going 
to  do.  Oh,  yes,  I  was  going  to  ring  for  Higgins. 
Funny  how  your  mind  works." 

The  professor  had  adjusted  his  spectacles  and  was 
glancing  at  the  head  lines  of  the  paper. 

"  Mr.  Botts,"  he  remarked  proudly,  "  has  pledged 
forty  thousand " 

"  Hudson  7857." 

The  professor  whirled  about,  irritated  at  what  was 
undoubtedly  some  new  insult  from  behind  him. 

"  What's  that?  "  he  demanded.  "  Oh,"  he  grum- 
bled, as  he  saw  that  Mathewson  was  leaning  over  the 
telephone,  the  receiver  at  his  ear. 

"  This  Hudson  7857  ?  Will  you  send  a  boy  around 
197 


THE    YAEDSTICK   MAN 


for  a  telegram?  Jones,  15  West  Seventy-second 
Street.  Yes,  that's  right."  Mathewson  hung  up  the 
receiver. 

"  As  I  started  to  say,"  began  the  professor  again 
sarcastically,  but  eager  for  a  full  audience  for  his 
announcement,  "  Mr.  Botts  has  pledged  forty  thou- 
sand  " 

"  I  wonder  why  he  doesn't  come."  It  was  Mrs. 
Jones  who  interrupted  him  this  time,  ringing  again 
and  again  with  increasing  irritation.  "  Higgins 
really  will  have  to  do  better.  Oh !  "  She  stopped 
short.  "  I  forgot.  Of  course.  I  let  him  go  out  this 
afternoon.  That  explains  why  the  lights  in  the  hall 
weren't  lit.  This  is  exasperating."  Again  she 
caught  Mathewson's  eye  upon  her.  "  But — I  sup- 
pose it's  my  own  fault.  I'll  run  down  and  tell  the 
cook."  She  flung  herself  out  of  the  room  and  they 
heard  the  click  of  the  lights,  as  the  dark  hall  was 
flooded  with  brilliancy,  and  her  quick  step  as  she 
ran  down  the  stairs. 

Professor  Trowbridge  stared  after  her  blinkingly. 
Then  slowly,  covertly,  he  turned,  as  if  to  get  a  better 
light  on  his  paper,  and  glanced  at  Mathewson.  See- 
ing that  he  was  intent  upon  the  envelope  in  his  hand, 
the  professor,  using  his  paper  as  a  shield,  craned  his 
head  to  see  what  Mathewson  was  doing.  When 
Mathewson  looked  up  a  moment  later,  however,  Pro- 

198 


MRS.    JONES    CASTS    HERSELF   LOOSE 

fessor  Trowbridge  seemed  to  be  reading,  with  shame- 
less avidity,  the  illustrated  account  of  the  training 
camp  of  a  well-known  pugilist. 

"  Oh,  professor,"  asked  Mathewson,  "  is  that  the 
evening  paper?  " 

"  It  is." 

"  Can  I  see  it  a  moment  ?  "  asked  Mathewson,  ris- 
ing and  coming  to  him. 

"  You  may"  said  the  professor,  with  correcting 
emphasis.  "  I  can  read  it  later,"  he  added,  as  if  to 
remind  Mathewson  of  his  lack  of  consideration. 

If  Mathewson  noticed,  however,  he  paid  no  atten- 
tion. He  took  the  paper  and  scanned  the  headlines 
hurriedly,  anxiously,  turning  the  rattling  sheets 
again  and  again,  to  make  sure  that  there  was  no  news 
bearing  upon  that  of  the  startling  telegram  which 
he  had  received. 

Meanwhile  Professor  Trowbridge  was  not  idle. 
Seeing  that  Mathewson  was  wholly  absorbed  in  the 
newspaper,  he  yielded  to  a  temptation.  It  had  always 
been  a  part  of  his  duty,  as  he  conceived  it,  to  know 
all  that  was  going  on.  It  was  ridiculous  to  call  all 
spying  contemptible.  It  was  often  necessary,  a  thing 
of  high  moral  purpose.  He  would  have  denied  vig- 
orously that  inquisitiveness  was  in  any  degree  the 
cause  of  such  action.  It  always  had  been,  he  would 
have  maintained  even  to  himself,  wholly  unselfish.  It 

199 


THE   YARDSTICK   MAN 


was  for  the  good  of  the  boy  or  for  the  good  of  the 
college.  Everything  the  professor  did  was  osten- 
sibly for  the  benefit  of  something  or  somebody. 
Urged  on,  as  he  always  was,  by  a  sense  of  high  recti- 
tude, any  method  to  obtain  a  desirable  end  became 
right  to  him. 

Now,  unconsciously  on  tiptoe,  he  stole  across  to 
the  telephone  desk,  where  the  envelope  upon  which 
Mathewson  had  written  still  lay  upturned.  There 
was  a  pile  of  papers  on  the  desk  as  well,  and  the 
professor's  hands  toyed  with  these  as  he  glanced 
eagerly  at  the  envelope.  The  years  had  not  failed 
to  teach  him  a  certain  awkward  subtlety. 

There  was  nothing  in  the  newspaper.  With  a 
sigh  of  relief  Mathewson  let  it  drop  on  the  table. 
Then,  realizing  for  the  first  time  that  the  professor 
was  not  beside  him,  he  turned. 

"  I — I  left  some  documents  here  this  morning." 
The  guilty  stammer  in  the  professor's  speech  spoiled 
whatever  help  his  subterfuge  might  have  lent  him. 

"  Did  you  ?  "  inquired  Mathewson,  outwardly  gen- 
ial. "  I  left  one  there  just  now,"  he  continued  in 
his  slow  drawl.  "  It's  a  telegram  that  is  very  pri- 
vate, professor.  That's  the  reason  I  wrote  it  in 
cipher."  He  pulled  up  a  chair,  and  sitting  down,  his 
back  to  Trowb ridge,  he  picked  up  the  paper  once 
more.  "  Would  you  mind  bringing  it  to  me  when 

200 


MRS.  JONES  CASTS  HERSELF  LOOSE 

you're  through  with  it?  "  The  slow,  good-humored 
tone  did  not  wholly  mask  the  satire  as  he  added: 
"  Through  with  the  desk,  I  mean,  of  course." 

"  I — I  do  not  know  which  it  is,"  began  the  pro- 
fessor, purple  with  impotent  anger.  "  I — I  am  not 
in  the  habit  of  running  errands " 

"  Oh,  I  forgot  about  your  dignity,"  broke  in 
Mathewson  pleasantly,  rising.  "  I'll  get  it  my- 
self." 

His  long  arm  leaned  in  front  of  the  professor,  and 
picked  up  the  envelope.  He  glanced  at  it  in  a 
leisurely  way,  as  if  to  be  sure  that  it  had  not  been 
tampered  with,  and  placing  it  in  his  pocket,  he  re- 
turned to  his  chair,  never  once  looking  at  the  pro- 
fessor. His  every  word  and  movement  stung  the 
professor  to  increasing  wrath. 

"  You — you  are  impertinent,  sir,"  he  spluttered. 

"  Possibly,"  agreed  Mathewson,  quietly  turning. 
"  There  are  worse  things  than  impertinence,  pro- 
fessor." 

"  There  are,  indeed,"  retorted  the  professor  mean- 
ingly- 

For  a  few  seconds  they  looked  at  each  other  silent- 
ly. It  was  their  old  antagonism  renewed.  Then 
Mathewson  shook  his  head  slowly  and  hopelessly,  and 
with  an  inward  groan  returned  to  his  perusal  of  the 
paper. 

14  201 


THE   YAEDSTICK   MAN 


He  found  the  financial  news,  and  tried  to  read  the 
account  of  the  day  which  was  fraught  with  such  im- 
portance to  him.  It  was  a  useless  attempt,  however. 
His  mind  was  on  the  narrow,  sharp-cornered  figure 
behind  him,  which  had  settled  into  the  little  desk 
chair.  The  professor  was  busily  sorting  over  the 
pile  of  papers,  as  if  to  furnish  proof  of  the  state- 
ment he  had  made.  It  would  have  been  amusing,  as 
the  professor  always  had  been  amusing  to  Mathew- 
son,  if  it  were  not  for  her.  As  it  was,  it  was  serious. 
He  knew  too  well  the  unrelenting,  inflexible  hardness 
of  the  man,  his  narrow,  meager  goodness,  his  devo- 
tion to  what  he  called  duty.  The  possibility  of  mak- 
ing him  understand  never  came  to  Mathewson.  It 
would  have  been  an  absurdity  to  attempt  it.  No, 
things  would  have  to  take  their  course.  There  was  a 
chance  that  even  the  professor  would  hesitate  in  such 
a  case  as  this. 

There  was  one  satisfaction.  He,  Mathewson, 
would  be  blamed,  not  she.  His  shoulders  were  broad. 
It  did  not  matter  about  him  anyhow.  Her  future, 
her  happiness  were  the  real  things  at  stake. 

His  mind  swung  off  to  her,  and  he  smiled  grimly. 
He  wondered  if  it  had  been  wholly  unpremeditated. 
The  professor  out  to  dinner;  Higgins  out  for  the 
afternoon;  that  only  left  Mabel,  and  she  had  asked 
about  the  girl.  She  had  taken  that  chance.  It  was 

202 


MRS.    JONES    CASTS    HERSELF   LOOSE 

not  that  she  really  cared  about  him.  He  knew  better 
than  that.  It  was  just  a  desperate,  neurotic  outburst 
against  things  as  they  were,  an  impulsive  rebellion 
which  had  centered  upon  him  because  he  was  there. 
It  was  her  first  outburst,  he  was  certain.  Would  it 
be  her  last  ?  He  thought  so.  But  things  would  have 
to  be  different,  he  told  himself.  She  was  unhappy, 
that  was  clear.  Mabel  was  right.  There  were  gob- 
lins in  the  house.  Goblins  !  He  smiled  tenderly  over 
the  word.  Ah,  well,  they  would  have  to  work  the 
thing  out  in  their  own  way,  he  decided.  He  was  no 
reformer.  It  was  not  a  part  of  his  task,  as  he  saw 
it,  to  meddle  in  anybody's  affairs,  certainly  not 
anything  as  delicate  as  this.  He  came  back  to 
his  old  phrase.  It  was  bound  to  come  out  all 
right. 

Meanwhile,  there  was  only  one  thing  for  him  to  do. 
He  had  made  a  mistake  in  coming  to  this  house.  Now 
he  must  leave  it  as  quickly  and  as  easily  as  he  could. 
Once  he  was  away,  things  would  settle  back  into  their 
old  routine.  He  always  had  been  a  trouble-maker, 
he  told  himself,  shrugging  his  shoulders— "  the 
goat,"  as  they  used  to  say  at  Crcdmore. 

A  new  thought  came  to  sober  him.  Would  he  not, 
by  leaving  now,  jeopardize  the  success  of  this  thing 
he  had  come  to  do?  Where  would  he  go?  Where  so 
well  could  he  keep  up  his  old  status  as  Roger  Mathew- 

203 


THE    YAEDSTICK   MAN 


son?  He  thought  of  this  for  some  minutes,  conflict- 
ing impulses  clashing  within  him.  At  last  his  old 
slogan  helped  him  once  more.  He  cast  the  question 
aside.  It  did  not  matter.  The  thing  for  him  to  do 
was  to  go.  It  was  bound  to  come  out  all  right. 


CHAPTER    XI 

THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 

JONES  was  at  the  office  early  that  morning.  He 
had  breakfasted  alone,  a  considerable  time  before 
even  Mrs.  Jones  appeared.  He  did  this  once  in  a 
while,  but  as  he  almost  always  got  into  a  temper 
if  he  tried  to  explain  why,  she  preferred  to  take 
it  for  granted,  and  therefore  laid  no  great  emphasis 
upon  it. 

The  clerks,  sharp-eyed  and  dull  alike,  made  no 
particular  comment  upon  finding  him  there  before 
them.  Nothing  in  the  way  of  surprising  methods  of 
discipline  would  have  seemed  extraordinary  to  any  of 
Jones's  employees.  As  for  his  behavior  during  the 
rest  of  the  day,  they  were  all  too  busy  with  the  hurly- 
burly,  which  began  at  ten  and  kept  up  increasingly 
until  three,  to  notice  whether  there  was  anything 
unusual  in  Jones's  behavior  or  not. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  would  have  taken  a  very 
acute  observer  to  see  any  difference  in  the  Jones  of 
that  day  as  against  the  ordinary  Jones.  It  was  true 
that  he  spent  less  time  sitting  solidly  and  grimly  at 
his  desk ;  but  then,  it  was  a  very  busy  day,  when  even 

205  . 


THE    YARDSTICK    MAX 


the  boss  had  to  loosen  up  and  get  into  things.  It 
was  true  that  he  hung  over  the  ticker  a  good  deal. 
He  usually  asked  somebody  else  for  quotations,  show- 
ing a  fine  disregard  of  the  ordinary  fluctuations  of  the 
market.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  it  was  a  day  when 
everybody  hung  over  the  ticker;  when  every  click 
of  that  diabolical  little  instrument  brought  shivers  of 
dread  to  some  of  the  group  in  the  customers'  room, 
and  gloating  expectations  to  others.  It  was  true, 
also,  that  he  seemed  more  absorbed,  more  gruff,  more 
perturbed.  But  then,  it  was  an  absorbing,  perturb- 
ing, gruff  day  in  Wall  Street.  Perhaps  the  only  in- 
dication, which  even  an  acute  observer  would  have 
taken  as  meaning  that  there  was  anything  personally 
exciting  in  the  day's  affairs  to  Jones,  was  the  fact 
that  he  smoked  constantly.  Jones,  being  a  well-regu- 
lated man,  had  for  years  allowed  himself  only  a  cer- 
tain number  of  cigars  per  day,  and  it  might  have 
been  noticed  that  he  considerably  overran  that  num- 
ber in  the  morning  alone,  and  that  he  continued  at 
the  same  pace  throughout  the  rest  of  the  day. 

If,  however,  there  was  little  surface  difference  in 
Jones  which  could  not  be  accounted  for  by  ordinary 
events,  what  a  turmoil  there  was  within !  Jones  had 
long  since  schooled  himself  to  that  expressionless  ex- 
terior, that  outward  mask  for  his  feelings,  which  most 
criminals,  and  some  business  men,  think  necessary  in 

206 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


their  professions.  Within,  however,  he  was  all  day  a 
recognized  riot  of  exultation,  and  if  by  his  cautious 
temperament  there  was  added  a  trifle  of  disbelief  in 
his  own  good  fortune,  now  that  it  had  come,  that  only 
sweetened  the  pleasure  with  which  he  assured  him- 
self, on  each  new  excursion  to  the  ticker  or  to  the 
quotation  board,  that  the  best  he  had  really  hoped 
for  was  being  outdone. 

Occasionally,  in  his  methodical  way,  he  would  sit 
down  at  his  desk,  and  under  guise  of  working  over 
the  piles  of  letters  and  reports  which  had  accumulated 
during  the  morning,  he  would  calculate  swiftly,  at 
the  latest  quotation,  his  suddenly  added  wealth.  And 
almost  at  once  he  would  jump  up  and  hurry,  half  hesi- 
tantly, across  to  the  ticker  once  more,  to  make  sure 
that  in  the  few  minutes  he  had  been  away,  nothing 
had  happened  to  erase  any  of  those  hoped-for  win- 
nings. Still  Pacific  and  Eastern  sagged  lower  and 
lower. 

Once  he  dictated  letters  to  his  stenographer  for 
more  than  fifteen  minutes  at  a  stretch.  Terse,  ner- 
vous letters  they  were,  for  through  them  all  came  the 
sharp  clicking  of  the  ticker  from  across  the  room, 
calling  to  him  it  seemed.  He  had  doggedly  kept  at 
his  desk  until  the  letters  were  written  and  his  desk 
cleared,  but  he  sighed  with  relief  when  the  long,  un- 
reeling tape  was  once  more  in  his  fingers,  and  when 

207 


THE   YAEDSTICK   MAN 


he  saw  on  the  tape  that  he  was  upwards  of  five  points 
better  off  than  he  had  been  before  he  began  to  dictate. 
In  the  satisfaction  of  the  moment  he  even  remarked, 
half  humorously  to  himself,  that  it  was  the  most 
profitable  correspondence  he  had  ever  had. 

At  times,  indeed,  like  this,  he  was  very  light- 
hearted,  as  one  would  think  naturally  became  a  man 
under  such  circumstances.  Again,  however,  his  fore- 
head creased  and  he  shook  his  head  doubtfully,  won- 
dering and  worrying  whether  it  could  last,  whether 
he  was  not  taking  too  many  chances,  whether  it  would 
not  be  better  to  take  the  already  large  profits  which  he 
had  figured  yonder  on  his  desk.  Indeed,  in  the  after- 
noon— morning  and  afternoon  were  all  one  to  him, 
for  he  had  his  lunch  brought  in  to  him,  rather  than 
leave  that  noisy  machine  to  do  who  knew  what  damage 
in  his  absence — the  idea  became  so  much  an  obsession 
with  him  that  he  called  Sheldon  away  from  the  floor 
of  the  Exchange,  and  put  the  question  to  him  in 
guarded  language.  Jones  always  used  guarded  lan- 
guage, particularly  over  the  telephone.  All  tele- 
phone operators,  he  believed,  were  dangerous.  He 
never  had  had  a  girl  at  his  own  keyboard  whom  he 
really  trusted. 

Of  course  Sheldon,  coming  out  of  the  hoarse,  dis- 
heveled, selling  mob  on  the  floor,  laughed  at  him.  If 
anything,  the  flood  of  Pacific  and  Eastern  stock  was 

208 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


increasing  rather  than  decreasing.  Everybody  was 
selling  it,  he  said.  Why  throw  away  profits  which 
were  there  waiting  for  them?  He  added  some  jocular 
sarcasm  before  ringing  off,  which  Jones  would  have 
resented,  had  not  the  whole  tone  of  Sheldon's  conver- 
sation bolstered  up  his  waning  confidence  and  made 
him  so  thoroughly  satisfied  with  himself  and  with  all 
things  appertaining  to  himself,  that  even  Sheldon's 
little  fling  made  no  great  impression  on  him.  Some- 
how he  had  needed  just  that  word  from  Sheldon. 
From  then  on  his  confidence  increased,  confidence  in 
himself,  in  his  destiny. 

He  tramped  back  and  forth  now  with  a  delightful 
consciousness  of  his  new  position,  his  mind — when  it 
was  not  busy  with  details  which  the  clerks  brought 
him,  or  with  the  quotation  board,  or  with  some 
customer  who  buttonholed  him  on  the  way  between 
the  accounting  office  and  his  own  private  room — plan- 
ning many  things.  There  was  so  much  that  the 
money  would  buy — that  is,  of  course,  the  income  of 
the  money.  Jones  never  would  have  thought  of 
spending  any  of  the  capital  itself.  There  were  so 
many  things  he  could  do,  which  he  had  thought  he 
could  not  afford  before.  And  then  the  success  of  it! 
He  looked  at  the  people  about  him,  and  realized  with 
an  inward  satisfaction  which  was  almost  a  thrill,  what 
a  successful  man  he  was.  There  were,  of  course,  two 

209 


THE    YAEDSTICK   MAN 


or  three  faces  in  the  customers'  room  which  troubled 
him  momentarily.  He  knew  from  their  look  what  had 
happened.  They  had  bought  Pacific  and  Eastern  and 
were  now  on  the  road  to  poverty,  if,  indeed,  they  had 
not  been  sold  out  already.  He  threw  this  off  quickly, 
however.  It  was  not  his  fault. '  Nobody  could  blame 
him.  He  had  been  perfectly  square  and  straight 
about  the  whole  business.  Everyone,  who  had  asked 
him  his  opinion  of  Pacific  and  Eastern,  he  had  ad- 
vised strongly  to  leave  the  stock  alone  for  the  present. 
Of  course  he  had  not  advised  anyone  to  sell  it.  That 
would  have  been  giving  the  game  away.  Nor  had  he 
given  advice  except  when  he  was  asked.  People 
would  have  been  suspicious  if  he  had  done  that.  But 
he  had  done  his  duty,  his  full  duty — more  than  most 
brokers  would  have  done,  he  told  himself.  He  knew 
too  well  the  bucket-shop  methods  which  some  of 
his  most  respected  colleagues  resorted  to  at  times. 
He  never  had  done  anything  of  that  sort,  he  told 
himself,  nor  anything  else  which  any  Wall  Street 
man,  no  matter  how  finical,  could  take  him  to  task 
for. 

Closing  time  came,  and  shortly  Sheldon,  tired  out 
but  beaming.  The  office  still  hummed  with  activity, 
although  most  of  the  customers  drifted  out  almost  at 
once.  Sheldon  himself  left  early,  but  Jones  stayed, 
hanging  over  the  shoulders  of  the  bookkeepers,  read- 

210 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


ing  every  fresh  report  as  it  came  in,  hating  to  leave 
the  scene  of  his  victory  and  longing  for  the  morning, 
which  would  find  him  there  again,  clinching  it,  mak- 
ing it  certain  as  well  as  larger.  It  was  not  until  the 
red  afterglow  in  the  West  was  fading,  and  the  canon- 
like  streets  below  were  dusky  in  the  half  light,  that 
he  started  for  home. 

He  was  in  excellent  humor  when  he  let  himself  in 
at  the  door.  On  the  way  up  in  the  car  he  had,  with 
considerable  satisfaction,  sorted  out  his  fellow  pas- 
sengers into  their  probable  classes,  as,  failures,  those 
who  just  get  along,  semi-successes,  and  successes. 
And  it  is  needless  to  say  that  in  his  present  mood 
he  added  a  fifth  class,  considerably  higher  than  any  of 
the  others,  which  was  composed  of  one  person  only — 
namely,  himself.  He  walked  down  the  hall  and  up 
the  stairs,  however,  with  conscious  deliberation.  If 
he  had  news,  it  was  his  own,  to  do  with  as  he  liked. 
There  was  nothing  extraordinary,  therefore,  in  his 
manner  as  he  greeted  the  two  men  in  the  library, 
except,  possibly,  an  added  pompous  assurance. 

"  Good  evening,  gentlemen.  Well,  this  has  been 
a  day.  Where's  my  wife?  I  want  to  see  her." 

"  Down  interviewing  the  cook,  I  believe,"  drawled 
Mathewson. 

He  was  studying  Jones  reflectively,  and  his 
thoughts  were  very  far  away  from  Wall  Street. 

211 


THE   YARDSTICK   MAN 


Mathewson  seldom  had  analyzed  people.  He  had 
taken  them  for  granted  as  they  were.  He  had  liked 
the  good  things  he  found  in  them.  What  most  people 
called  their  faults  had  amused  him.  Life  was  too 
short  to  hold  grudges,  too  short  to  spend  half  of 
one's  mortal  time  in  criticism.  Nearly  everybody, 
according  to  his  more  or  less  unconscious  philosophy, 
had  enough  of  a  job  standing  on  his  two  feet  and 
behaving  like  a  man,  to  have  much  time  left  to  worry 
about  what  other  people  did  or  thought.  In  his  wan- 
dering, individual  life  he  had  found  nearly  everyone 
interesting  in  one  way  or  another,  and  he  seldom 
had  failed  to  find  the  warm  human  undercurrent  which 
made  for  companionship  and  friendship.  He  never 
had  developed,  in  other  words,  his  capacity  for  hatred 
and  criticism  except  in  an  impersonal  kind  of  a  way. 
It  had  been  not  so  much  Carnahan  as  the  thing  he 
stood  for,  the  thing  he  was  doing,  which  had  brought 
out  Mathewson's  vigorous  enmity.  And  now,  in  the 
face  of  a  new  situation  he  was,  for  the  first  time, 
taking  Jones  seriously  and  wondering  what  stuff  was 
really  in  him. 

"  She  always  is,"  fumed  Jones,  frowning.  "  I  pay 
for  servants  enough.  She  shouldn't  have  a  thing  to 
do.  And  to-night  of  all  nights !  "  he  grumbled. 

"  I  trust  nothing  has  gone  amiss  ?  "  inquired  the 
professor  anxiously. 

212 


"  With  me?  Oh,  no,"  replied  Jones,  realizing  that 
he  had  spoken  too  freely.  He  had  no  intention  of 
telling  either  of  his  guests,  at  once,  of  what  had  hap- 
pened. That  would  not  be  cautious.  When  every- 
thing was  closed  up,  then  he  would  tell  them,  but  not 
now.  "With  the  market?  Yes.  Ah!"  he  added, 
"  I  see  you're  reading  the  report,  Mathewson.  An 
exciting  day.  I'm  worn  out." 

The  day  had  indeed  worn  upon  him.  With  the 
words  he  suddenly  felt  dizzy  and  caught  the  back  of 
a  chair,  surprisingly  glad  of  its  support. 

Mathewson's  shrewd  eyes  caught  the  movement. 

"  Why  don't  you  sit  down?  "  he  asked,  half  out  of 
his  chair  at  once. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  feel  like  it,"  replied  Jones  gruffly, 
ashamed  at  having  shown  any  weakness,  and  lighting 
a  fresh  cigar  in  sheer  bravado.  "  I'm  too  excited. 
I've  smoked  a  hundred  of  these  to-day,  I  guess."  He 
crossed  nervously  to  the  door.  "Where  is  Doro- 
thy? "  he  added  irritably.  "  I'll  ring— 

"Higgins  is  out,"  broke  in  Mathewson,  sinking 
back  into  his  chair  and  staring  at  Jones's  broad  back. 
Physical  weakness  always  rather  appalled  Mathewson. 
He  never  had  felt  a  touch  of  it  in  his  outdoor,  un- 
worrying  existence.  It  always  seemed  to  him  that 
there  was  something  vitally  wrong,  when  a  reasonably 
strong  man  had  the  sallow  face  and  the  nervous  move- 

213 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


ments  of  Jones,  to  say  nothing  of  this  additional  ex- 
hibition of  weakness  and  weariness. 

"  He  is,  eh? "  Jones  turned  back,  blustering. 
"  Well,  we'll  have  a  new  butler.  I'm  going  to  have 
things  right  from  now  on.  I'm  going  to  have  a 
housekeeper,  so  that  my  wife  shan't  have  a  thing  to 
think  about.  Well,  professor,"  he  added  briskly, 
"  any  luck  to-day  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Botts,"  began  Professor  Trowbridge,  for  the 
third  time,  "  has  subscribed  forty  thousand — 

But  even  now  he  was  not  permitted  to  finish. 

"  Good,"  broke  in  Jones.  "  We'll  get  the  rest  all 
right.  Mathewson,"  he  went  on,  as  if  something 
within  him  prodded  him  to  continuous  activity,  "  you 
look  down-hearted.  Oh,  I  forgot,"  he  added.  "  You 
have  a  little  Pacific  and  Eastern  stock.  Gone  to 
nothing;  closed  at  24,  a  loss  of  more  than  50  points. 
It's  a  long  time  since  we've  had  a  day  like  this.  It'll 
go  lower  to-morrow.  It'll  hit  ten  or  less.  Every- 
body's selling  it."  Sheldon's  confident  words  came 
back  to  him.  "  I'd  advise  you  to  get  out  at  any 
price." 

"  It  may  go  up,  I  suppose,"  suggested  Mathewson, 
quietly. 

"  Oh,  perhaps,"  replied  Jones,  with  a  contemptuous 
jerk  of  his  head,  "  in  years,  on  some  new  deal.  Bot- 
tled up  tight  now.  Small  earnings,  big  expenses ; 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


receivership,  probably.  You've  still  got  your 
stock?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  replied  Mathewson  carelessly,  his  eyes 
narrowed.  He  was  watching  Jones. 

"  Well,  you  sell  it.  Take  my  advice.  First  thing 
in  the  morning.  For  I'll  tell  you  something."  He 
stopped  his  nervous  pacing  up  and  down,  and  came 
nearer,  lowering  his  voice.  "  We  had  a  report  just 
before  I  left  the  office.  It  h  ^ln'  got  to  the  papers. 
Holworthy  is  in  bad  shape,  o  Cation  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing." 

A  sudden  change  came  OUT  MuLhewson.  He 
leaned  forward,  gripping  the  arms  of  a  chair. 

"  Yes  ?  "  he  asked,  anxiously. 

"  There !  That  shows  you,  doesn't  it?  Of  course 
it  may  be  a  rumor,  but,  if  it's  true,  it  takes  all  the 
brains  and  fight  out  of  the  road.  You'd  better  sell. 
It's  too  bad,"  he  added,  as  he  saw  Mathewson's  fixed 
gaze.  "  Fortunes  of  war,  you  know." 

"Of  war,"  Mathewson  repeated  softly,  but  his 
teeth  were  clenched.  He  looked  up  as  he  heard  the 
distant  sounding  of  the  front-door  bell.  "  Heigho." 
He  tried  to  assume  his  old  jauntiness  as  he  rose. 
"  There's  the  boy  for  my  telegram." 

On  the  threshold  he  hesitated.  Athwart  the  deeper 
gloom,  into  which  Jones's  bald  confirmation  of  his 
news  from  the  West  had  plunged  him,  came  the  real- 

215 


THE    YARDSTICK    MAX 


ization  that  he  was  leaving  the  two  men  together, 
alone.  There  was  Dot  to  consider.  He  had  no  time 
to  think. 

"  Oh,  I  say,  Jones,"  he  drawled,  repressing  his  in- 
ward emotion,  "  I  gave  that  wife  of  yours  some  advice 
this  afternoon.  Think  of  me  giving  .advice.  Isn't 
that  funny  ?  "  He  forced  a  laugh.  "  I — who  have 
had  all  kinds  of  advice  given  me  and  who  never  have 
taken  any.  But  I  did.  I  said  to  her:  '  Blessed  is  he 
who  laughs  when  he  doesn't  feel  like  it,  for  ' — '  please 
God,'  whispered  his  heart,  in  its  own  dread,  as  he 
faltered—'  he  shall  feel  like  it.'  That's  right,  isn't 
it,  Jones  ?  No  matter  what  happens."  He  repeated 
the  phrase  slowly.  "  No  matter  what  happens.  It's 
bound  to  come  out  all  right."  He  saw  Jones's  puz- 
zled stare.  He  was  conscious  that  he  had  failed. 
Strangely  enough,  however,  his  own  words  came  back 
to  cheer  him,  and  he  smiled  as  he  turned  away. 

"  He  takes  his  loss  hard,"  nodded  Jones,  half  to 
himself,  when  Mathewson  was  out  of  hearing,  "  but 
it  isn't  my  fault.  I  was  under  no  obligations — but  I 
hate  to  see  any  man  lose  money.  Well,  professor," 
he  said,  throwing  off  his  momentary  attack  of  con- 
science, "  it  has  been  a  great  day.  I  think  we  shall 
be  able  to  fix  you  up  now.  I  tell  you,  professor,"  he 
added,  "  right  wins.  It  may  take  time,  but  right 
wins." 

216 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


Professor  Trowbridge  hesitated,  his  brows  creased 
into  more  than  the  usual  number  of  folds.  He  un- 
doubtedly had  been  wavering  in  his  resolution  to  tell 
Jones.  The  presence  of  the  two  men  had  given  him 
a  premonition  of  physical  conflict,  and  the  professor 
shrank  from  that  as  from  something  gross.  His 
task  was  not  a  pleasant  one,  he  realized,  and  he 
cringed  from  it.  Curiously  enough,  however,  it  was 
this  very  realization  which,  in  the  end,  urged  him  on. 
The  more  unpleasant  a  thing  was,  the  more  relentless- 
ly it  must  be  his  duty.  That  was  part  of  his  philos- 
ophy. The  righteous  must  be  warned.  The  guilty 
must  be  punished.  He  must  not  consider  his  own 
comfort  in  the  matter. 

"  Jones,"  he  said  in  a  sepulchral  voice. 

"  Yes,  professor."  Jones  was  impressed.  He  had 
seen  before  that  solemn,  sorrowful  look  on  the  pro- 
fessor's angular  face.  It  never  had  presaged 
good. 

"I  must  tell  you.  It  is  my  duty.  Before  he 
comes  back."  The  slight  emphasis  upon  the  pronoun 
was  significant.  "  I  warned  you,  Jones." 

Jones  comprehended  slowly.  In  spite  of  his  earlier 
suspicions,  the  actuality  of  it  was  unbelievable. 

"  You  don't  mean— 

"Yes.     I  saw  it." 

"  My  God !  And  I  suspected  it  all  the  time,  from 
15  217 


THE    YARDSTICK    MAN 


the  very  beginning,  and  I've  been  fool  enough — 
What  did  you  see  ?  "  he  demanded  hoarsely. 
.  The  professor  cleared  his  throat.  It  was  more 
difficult  than  he  had  anticipated.  He  glanced,  over 
Jones's  shoulder,  toward  the  door  fearfully.  Jones's 
voice  seemed  very  loud. 

"  It  was  dark,  but  they  were  by  the  window.  He — 
he " 

"  Go  on." 

"  His — his — arms  were — um — about  her." 

"And  she?" 

"  She — I  regret  to  say — there  were  endearing 
words 

"  I  might  have  known,"  broke  in  Jones  harshly. 
"  And  I  came  home  to-night  to  tell  her —  Why, 
I've  always  done  everything  for  her.  I've  spent 
money  like  water,  and  this  is  the  way  she  repays 
me." 

"  Jones,  I  beg  you  to  be  calm,"  put  in  the  profes- 
sor anxiously,  his  eyes  again  on  the  door. 

But  Jones  did  not  seem  to  hear  him. 

"  And  as  for  him,"  he  growled,  his  doubled  fists 
shaking  at  his  side.  "  The  sneaking,  sneering,  good- 
for-nothing  scoundrel,  who  scoffs  at  good  men,  I'll 
teach  him.  I  have  some  power  now.  I — I — I'm 
glad  he  lost  that  money,"  he  cried,  in  the  extremity 
of  his  outraged  soul. 

218 


THE    YARDSTICK    MAN 


Professor  Trowbridge,  who  had  moved  restlessly 
toward  the  door,  raised  a  warning  hand  imploringly. 

"  He  sent  a  telegram,  Jones,"  he  whispered  with 
significant  emphasis. 

Jones  glared  at  him  with  burning  eyes.  The  sug- 
gestion went  home,  however.  There  was  the  future 
to  plan  for.  It  sobered  him  momentarily. 

"  That's  true,"  he  agreed,  more  quietly.  "  I 
know.  I  must  be  wise.  There  is  too  much  at  stake. 
There  must  be  no  scandal.  Scandal !  "  he  muttered. 
"  My  good  name.  Our  position.  At  any  cost  it 
must  be  kept  quiet." 

"  Exactly."  Professor  Trowbridge  nodded  ap- 
provingly. 

Jones  slumped  as  if  exhausted.  He  groped  his 
way  to  a  chair.  His  cigar  had  gone  out,  but  his 
stubby  fingers  toyed  nervously  with  the  butt. 

"  First  we  must  get  rid  of  him,"  he  said,  half  under 
his  breath.  "  Quietly,  of  course.  I  must  hold  my 
temper.  He — he — "  His  hands  clenched;  then  he 
groaned.  "Well,  once  that's  done  we  must  watch 
her.  She  must  not  know.  She  must  give  him  up. 
Must,  I  say,"  he  repeated.  "  Why,  he  has  nothing  to 
offer  her,"  he  argued,  unbelief  again  creeping  into 
his  voice,  "  and  I'm  rich  now.  Rich ! ' 

A  low  "  s-s-h  "  from  Professor  Trowbridge  made 

him  look  up. 

219 


THE    YARDSTICK    MAN 


"  Well,  Miss  Wright?  "  he  said  gruffly,  for  the  girl 
stood  on  the  threshold,  peering  in. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said.  "  I  thought  Mr. 
Mathewson  was  here."  She  turned  at  once  and  hur- 
ried away. 

"  Mathewson !  "  growled  Jones,  gripping  the  arms 
of  his  chair  angrily. 

There  was  silence  for  a  few  seconds. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  said  the  professor,  with  stern 
sympathy. 

"  You've  been  a  good  friend  to  me,  professor.  I 
shan't  forget  it." 

Almost  at  once  Jones  started  to  his  feet.  He  had 
heard  his  wife's  voice,  and  turning  his  back  to  the 
doorway,  he  circled  the  table  and  stood  before  one  of 
the  bookcases,  staring  vaguely  at  a  picture  which 
hung  above  on  the  wall.  How  could  she  face  him? 
Was  duplicity  so  easy  for  her?  And  yet,  injured 
and  outraged  as  he  was,  the  sound  of  her  voice  shook 
him  strangely.  What  could  he  say  to  her,  knowing 
what  he  did? 

"  Wait  a  minute,  Mabel,"  he  heard  her  say.  "  I 
want  you  to  take  these  flowers.  Just  a  minute.  I 
want  to  show  them —  Oh,  Edward !  "  she  cried, 
catching  sight  of  him.  "  These  are  perfectly  lovely." 
There  was  no  denying  the  pleasure  in  her  voice.  She 
brought  the  open  box  to  the  table,  talking  as  she 

220 


came.  "  I  didn't  expect  them  at  all.  It's  such  a 
long  while  since —  These  roses  are  delicious.  Look, 
professor.  Why,  it's  like  old  times,  Edward,"  she 
exclaimed,  leaving  them  and  coming  toward  him, 
"  when — "  She  faltered,  as  he  did  not  move.  "  Why, 
Edward ! "  she  asked,  plaintively.  "  What's  the 
matter?  " 

There  was  a  moment's  pause.  Then  Jones  turned 
slowly.  His  look  was  as  impersonally  aloof  as  if  he 
scarcely  knew  her,  and  he  spoke  in  a  dull  monotone. 

"  I  did  not  send  the  flowers,  Dorothy." 

"  You  didn't  ?  "  She  was  disappointed  and  dis- 
concerted. "  Why,  then  it  must  have  been—  She 
hesitated. 

Mathewson,  in  the  doorway,  had  heard  the  last  few 
words.  His  flowers !  The  ones  he  had  ordered  from 
the  florist's  when  he  went  out  that  morning,  partly  as 
a  mark  of  appreciation,  but  particularly  because  he 
remembered  that  she  liked  them.  And  now — it  was 
just  his  luck.  He  smiled  in  spite  of  himself. 

"  I  guess  I'm  guilty,"  he  said,  coming  forward.  "  I 
ordered  them  to-day.  I'd  clean  forgotten  it.  You 
like  them,  Dot?  "  he  asked,  ignoring  the  professor's 
stare  and  Jones's  glowering,  menacing  gaze. 

"  They're  perfectly  lovely,"  declared  Mrs.  Jones. 
«  YOU — "  she  stopped  after  the  word  to  lend  it  em- 
phasis— "  always  think  of  things." 

221 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAX 


"  Didn't  think,"  Mathewson  denied,  honestly. 
"  Just  had  an  impulse,  and  followed  it." 

"  You  remembered  that  I  love  flowers.  It  isn't 
everybody  wrho  remembers,"  she  added,  vindictive  in 
her  disappointment,  "  or  has  impulses,  as  you  call  it." 

She  had  turned  her  back  to  Jones  now,  and 
Mathewson,  looking  past  her,  saw  Jones's  face  turn 
whiter  at  the  words  and  his  lips  move  angrily.  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  lit  a  cigarette. 

"  Mabel,  you  can  take  them  now,"  Mrs.  Jones  had 
run  on.  "  Plenty  of  water,  you  know.  Put  them  in 
that  blue  bowl — you  know  the  one — and  bring  them 
here,  on  this  table." 

The  girl  nodded  and  disappeared,  the  box  clasped 
in  her  arms. 

"  There,"  said  Mrs.  Jones.  "  I  must  go  and  dress 
for  dinner.  Edward,"  she  went  on,  speaking  in  an 
aloof  tone  which  she  felt  matched  his  look.  "  Will 
you  try  to  be  ready  on  time?  It  makes  it  so  hard 
for  the  servants.  And  it  was  perfectly  splendid  of 
you,  Roger,"  she  said,  turning  to  Mathewson.  "  I 
can't  thank  you  enough.  I — I — "  she  hesitated  be- 
fore his  glance.  Then,  slowly,  as  if  against  her  will, 
she  turned  to  Jones  once  more.  "  Oh,  Edward,  I 
hope  the  disturbance  down-town  wasn't  trouble- 
some ?  " 

"  No." 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


"  I'm  so  glad,"  she  said  hastily.  "  I  had  it  all 
planned  to  speak  of  that,  the  minute  I  came  into  the 
room,  and  then — "  She  faltered,  looking  from  him 
to  Trowbridge  and  then  to  Mathewson  with  growing 
perplexity  and  confusion.  "  Well — now,  do  hurry," 
she  ended  abruptly,  as  she  turned  away. 

Professor  Trowbridge  moved  hesitantly  after  her. 

"  I  think,"  he  said,  glancing  meaningly  at  Jones, 
"  that  I,  also — um — will  withdraw  to  prepare — 

"  No,  professor,"  broke  in  Jones,  "  I  should  prefer 
that  you  stay." 

Mathewson,  his  back  to  them,  apparently  study- 
ing the  paper  which  still  lay  open  upon  the  table, 
smoked  grimly.  He  understood.  It  was  coming  more 
quickly  than  he  had  expected.  He  was  not  even  to 
have  a  chance  to  go  quietly  as  he  had  planned.  He 
waited  calmly  enough.  He  found  himself  curious, 
in  a  speculative  kind  of  a  way ;  curious  about  Jones. 
He  did  not  have  to  wait  long. 

"  Mathewson." 

"  Yes  ?  "  he  drawled,  still  engrossed  in  the  paper 
and  not  looking  up. 

"  I  must  request  that  you  leave  this  house  at 
once." 

So  that  was  it.  Humanly  enough,  although  he  was 
forewarned,  Mathewson's  muscles  tightened  angrily 
at  the  words  and  at  the  tone  in  which  they  were 

223 


THE   YAKDSTICK   MAN 


spoken.  He  dropped  the  paper  and  looked  up, 
turning. 

"  Very  well,"  he  said  quietly.    "  Why?  " 

The  customary  twinkle  had  disappeared  from  his 
eyes  and  the  good-humored  smile  from  his  lips.  The 
easy  drawl  had  gone  also.  Jones  felt  the  difference 
and  hesitated.  Then  he  met  it  with  a  sneer. 

"  It's  scarcely  necessary  to  go  into  that." 

"  I  think  it  is,"  said  Mathewson  in  the  same  quiet, 
even  tone. 

His  outward  calm  stirred  Jones's  anger  the  more. 
It  was  the  ancient  grudge.  As  always,  even  now, 
when  right  was  so  clearly  on  his  side,  Jones  felt  him- 
self put  upon  the  defensive. 

"  All  right,"  he  blustered.  "  If  you  insist  upon  my 
telling  you  what  you  know  already,  it's  because  I  have 
discovered  that  you  and  my  wife — "  He  hesitated. 

"Well?" 

"  Are  not  to  be  trusted,"  flung  out  Jones. 

In  the  strained  pause  which  followed,  however,  his 
eyes  wavered  before  Mathewson's  steady  gaze.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  there  was  something,  almost  of 
contempt,  in  that  look.  He  could  not  understand  it. 
It  troubled  him.  It  seemed  an  inversion  of  justice. 
It  was  he  who  should  show  the  contempt. 

"  Jones,"  Mathewson  broke  the  silence,  his  voice 
still  quiet,  but  vibrant  and  intense.  "  If  any  other 

224 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


man  said  that,  or  anything  like  it,  about  your  wife 
I'd  knock  his  head  off.  Husbands  have  strange  priv- 
ileges." 

"  They  have  the  privilege  of  protecting  their  good 
name,"  began  Jones  hotly. 

"  So  that's  what  you're  really  troubled  about ;  your 
good  name."  There  was  less  of  scorn  than  of  sad- 
ness in  his  tone.  How  hopeless  it  all  seemed.  "  Poor 
Dot,"  he  added,  half  under  his  breath,  and,  turning 
his  back  on  them,  he  strode  to  the  window  and  stood 
gazing  out  into  the  darkness. 

"  My  wife  needs  no  sympathy  from  penniless  ad- 
venturers and  scoundrels,"  snarled  Jones,  stung  be- 
yond control.  He  felt  the  pressure  of  the  professor's 
warning  hand  upon  his  arm  and  stopped.  His  breath 
was  coming  in  heavy,  angry  gusts;  his  face,  dead 
white  before,  was  now  a  raw  red,  and  the  muscles 
under  his  flabby  flesh  were  contorted,  until  all  the 
fiendishness,  which  hatred  can  write  into  the  most 
placid  and  stolid  features,  showed  there.  It  seemed 
as  if  the  touch  of  warning  only  caught  that  look  and 
made  it  permanent.  Even  as  he  went  on  in  a  more 
conciliating  tone  he  trembled  under  the  repression 
he  was  putting  upon  himself.  "  Of  course,  I  should 
prefer  that  you  go  quietly,"  he  said. 

"  Your  good  name  again,  I  suppose."  Mathewson 
turned  and  came  back  slowly.  "  Oh,  Jones,"  he 

225 


THE    YARDSTICK    MAN 


added,  shaking  his  head  wearily,  "  you're  such  a 
failure." 

"  Failure !  "  cried  Jones.  The  word  snapped  the 
last  cord  by  which  he  held  himself.  For  an  instant  he 
forgot  everything;  everything  except  his  concen- 
trated hatred  of  the  man  who  stood  there  facing  him 
quietly,  everything  except  his  lust  for  vengeance.  He 
became  a  raging  animal,  all  human  control  lost. 
Wounded  and  goaded  by  the  words  which  he  could 
not  seem  to  answer,  the  primitive  beast  within  him 
asserted  itself.  His  only  remaining  resources  were 
clenched  fists.  With  these  upraised  he  fairly  rushed 
at  Mathewson. 

"  Jones,"  begged  the  professor,  desperately  trying 
to  hold  him  back. 

"  Careful,  Jones,"  came  the  quiet,  unmoved  voice 
just  ahead.  "  It  might  be — injudicious." 

Perhaps  something  in  the  level  tones  chilled  him. 
Perhaps  the  towering,  sinewy  strength  of  the  man 
who  waited  for  his  attack,  imperturbably,  made  him 
hesitate.  Perhaps  it  was  the  single  word  and  its  evi- 
dent truth.  He  fell  back,  and  his  shaking  hands 
dropped  to  his  sides. 

"  Failure !  "  he  snarled,  his  last  resource  defeated. 

Mathewson  nodded  sadly. 

"  The  worst  name  I  could  have  called  you,  Jones — 
failure.  But  I  don't  mean  failure  measured  by  your 

226 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


little  yardstick  standards.    Yardstick !  "  he  repeated. 
"  That's  it.   Listen,  Jones,"  he  went  on,  with  a  steady 
earnestness  which  grew  with  the  words.    "  In  a  great 
big,  beautiful  world  you  have  built  yourself  a  habi- 
tation, built  it  with  a  yardstick.     It's  foundation  is 
money.     Its  walls,  fine  to  look  at  in  the  exterior,  but 
cheap  and  flimsy,  are  reputation ;  position ;  your  good 
name.    Its  roof — to  hide  you  from  Heaven — is  good- 
ness ;  yardstick,  conventional  goodness.     And  what's 
inside?     Greed  for  more,  and  turmoil,  and  suspicion, 
and  fear;  fear  that  this  thing  you've  built  may  be 
blown  away  by  a  whirlwind  of  chance,  and  you  be 
left  naked  before  God  and  man.     Can't  you  see  it?  " 
he  urged.     He  stared  at  Jones  an  instant  before  he 
went  on,  almost  hopefully.     "I  caught  a  glimpse, 
just  now  from  the  window,  of  a  patch  of  sky.     Oh, 
Jones,  get  out  somewhere  where  the  buildings  aren't 
so  high  and  the  standards  are  higher.    And  look  up. 
There  it  is,  the  roof  and  the  walls  God  gave  us."    All 
the  underlying  seriousness  of  the  man,  that  deeper 
philosophy  which  his  more  shallow  manner  usually 
hid  came  to  the  surface.     "  How  I've  stared  up  at  it 
at  night,  out  on  the  plains.     There's  a  little  bit  of 
light,  and  it's  bigger  than  our  whole  earth.     And 
there's  another  and  another ;  millions  of  miles  away. 
Oh,  I  don't  know  much  about  it,  Jones,  but  it's  big. 
Perhaps,  out  there,"  he  added,  after  a  second,  "  you'd 

227 


THE    YAEDSTICK    MAN 


learn    what    a    miserable    little   yardstick   man    you 
are." 

Before  him  Jones  stood,  hunched  over,  breathing 
heavily,  tongue-tied  before  the  man's  suddenly 
assumed  mastery.  It  was  a  new  virile,  powerful 
Mathewson,  who  had  surprised  even  himself.  He 
seemed  to  realize  it,  in  the  dull  pause  that  followed, 
and  he  shrugged  his  shoulders,  deprecatingly,  at  his 
own  seriousness. 

"  Heigho,"  he  said.  "  What's  the  use  ?  I'll  run 
along  now,  I  think.  Will  you  'phone  for  a  cab  for 
me?  That'll  save  time."  He  started  for  the  door. 
"  I'll  be  ready  in  ten  minutes  or  less."  he  added. 

As  he  passed  Professor  Trowbridge  he  hesitated, 
as  if  about  to  speak  again.  He  only  shook  his  head 
hopelessly,  however,  and  strode  out  of  the  room. 

"  The  Dictator  "  gazed  after  him  with  evident  re- 
lief. It  was  not  that  Mathewson's  words  had  made 
any  impression  upon  him.  He  had  a  certain  opinion 
of  Mathewson,  and  he  changed  his  opinions  no  more 
easily  than  his  mind.  He  turned  to  Jones  with  that 
omniscient  certainty,  which  was  his  unfailing  weapon 
against  anything  or  anybody  he  could  not  wholly 
understand. 

"  Well,  Jones." 

Jones  had  been  staring  straight  ahead  of  him,  at 
the  place  where  Mathewson  had  stood. 

228 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


"  Well,  that's  done,"  he  said  gruffly.  His  shoul- 
ders hung  heavily,  however,  as  he  walked  slowly  across 
to  the  telephone  desk. 

"  You  see,"  argued  Professor  Trowbridge,  "  he 
practically  admitted  it." 

Jones  did  not  answer.  He  sat,  his  hand  upon  the 
receiver,  delaying.  Mathewson's  words  were  echoing 
in  his  ears — "  Failure !  "  "  Yardstick  man !  " 

"  An  innocent  man  would  have  demanded  a  vindica- 
tion," continued  the  professor.  "  He  did  nothing 
but  villify  you." 

"  And  I  think  I  showed  a  good  deal  of  self-re- 
straint," declared  Jones. 

"  You  did.  It  is  an  old  trick,  you  know,"  the 
professor  continued  dogmatically.  "  A  trick  char- 
acteristic of  minds  like  his  ;  evading  one  accusation  by 
making  another."  He  nodded  over  the  phrase,  as  if 
he  were  rather  pleased  with  it. 

Jones  made  no  answer.  Instead  he  called  central, 
got  the  stand  at  the  hotel  down  the  street,  and 
ordered  Mathewson's  cab  for  him. 

"There,"  he  growled.  "  We're  through  with  him. 
Thank  heaven  for  that.  You'd  better  go  up  and 
dress,  professor.  I'll  follow  in  a  minute.  And  I 
hope  you'll  keep  your  eyes  and  ears  open.  I  don't 
think  he'll  try  any  monkey  business,  but — well—  "  he 
added  gruffly,  "  she  mustn't  know  anything  about  it." 

229 


THE    YAKDSTICK   MAN" 


"  Quite  right,"  agreed  the  professor,  moving 
toward  the  door.  "  I  shall  be  vigilant." 

Jones  delayed,  however.  He  was  glad  to  be  alone. 
He  rested  his  head  wearily  upon  one  heavy  hand,  and 
tried  to  think.  To  have  all  this  come  upon  him  at 
the  close  of  such  a  day.  It  seemed  the  epitome  of 
tragedy  to  him.  He  was  momentarily  soothed  by  the 
self-pity  which  the  thought  brought  to  him.  He  had 
not  deserved  it,  any  more  than  he  had  deserved  the 
words  which  Mathewson  had  preached  at  him. 
Preached !  Mathewson !  He  grunted  contemptuous- 
ly, and  yet  in  spite  of  himself  Mathewson's  words 
came  reiterating  back  to  him.  They  seemed  to  taunt 
him,  to  fascinate  him,  and  to  defy  him.  He  glanced 
up  at  the  window  beside  him,  and  then,  almost  against 
his  will,  he  rose  and  peered  out.  Above  him,  in  the 
narrow  channel  of  sky,  visible  between  the  lines  of 
buildings,  dozens  of  stars  glowed  down  at  him.  He 
stared  at  them,  almost  as  at  an  unknown  phenomenon. 
It  had  been  years  since  he  had  consciously  looked  up 
at  the  night  sky.  He  had  been  too  busy  with  impor- 
tant matters,  to  more  than  acknowledge  its  presence. 
"  Millions  of  miles  away."  He  was  not  unaccustomed 
to  hear  and  talk  of  millions ;  but  millions  of  miles — • 
that  was  a  different  matter.  His  practical,  mathe- 
matical mind  began  to  work.  Millions  of  miles  !  And 
he  was — let's  see — five  feet  nine  and  a  half.  A  soft 

230 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


step  behind  him  broke  in  on  his  calculation,  and  he 
whirled  about  sharply,  his  taut  nerves  easily  startled. 
It  was  Mabel,  one  arm  filled  with  flowers,  the  other 
clutched  firmly  about  a  bowl  of  delft  blue.  She 
glanced  across  at  him,  inquiringly,  as  she  put  down 
the  bowl,  and  began  to  sort  out  the  flowers. 

Jones's  eyes  glared  past  her,  at  the  roses  and  the 
mignonette  and  the  fresh  lilies-of-the-valley  which  lay 
in  the  meshes  of  soft  spraying  green.  They  were 
Muthewson's  gift  to  her,  Jones's  wife.  His  cheeks 
reddened  again.  They  were  an  added  proof,  and  an 
added  insult. 

"  I  don't  want  those  here,  Miss  Wright,"  he  com- 
manded, peremptorily.  "  Take  them  out.  Throw 
them  away.  I  don't  care  what  you  do  with  them; 
only  take  them  and  keep  them  out  of  my  sight." 

As  he  came  toward  her,  Mabel  leaned  forward,  pro- 
tectingly,  over  the  flowers. 

"  But,"  she  objected  with  amazement,  and  with  a 
trace  of  defiance,  "  Mrs.  Jones  told  me  to  put  them 
here." 

"  Well,  7  tell  you,"  began  Jones.  He  hesitated, 
realizing  that  he  was  thwarted.  "I  see,"  he  said. 
"  She'll  want  to  know  why.  Yes,"  he  added,  awk- 
wardly. "  Yes,  of  course.  I  was  hasty.  We'll  let 
them  stay— for  the  present."  With  some  satisfac- 
tion in  that  last  significant  phrase,  he  made  his  re- 

231 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


treat.     His  reminded  caution,  however,  caused  him  to 
stop  in  the  doorway. 

"  You  won't  speak  of  this,  Miss  Wright  ?  " 
"  Why,  no,  of  course  not,"  said  the  girl. 
She  was  puzzled,  however.     For  a  full  minute  after 
he  had  gone,  she  stared  down  at  the  flowers  inquiring- 
ly, as  if  they  could  answer  the  question  which  was  in 
her  mind. 


CHAPTER  XII 

MATHEWSON'S   PLAN   DOES   NOT  WORK   OUT 

THE  goblins  were  abroad.  Mabel  Wright  felt 
them,  had  felt  them,  indeed,  all  the  afternoon. 
All  day  Mrs.  Jones  had  been,  alternately,  depress- 
ingly  silent  and  voluble  with  sharp  words.  Then 
there  was  the  telegram ;  then,  the  faces  of  the  two  men 
when  she,  looking  for  Mathewson,  had  surprised 
them;  then,  that  group  in  the  library,  when  Mrs. 
Jones  had  brought  in  the  flowers.  It  was  not  any- 
thing that  had  been  said,  anything  that  Mabel  could 
understand ;  but  the  goblins  were  there,  dancing  and 
chortling  and  leering  at  her  through  it  all.  And 
now,  the  flowers  again,  and  Mr.  Jones's  hatred  of 
them.  She  could  fairly  hear  the  flapping  of  the 
goblins'  wings,  as  they  flew  about  her. 

Goblins,  goblins,  always  goblins  in  this  house.  The 
slender  shoulders  actually  shivered  at  the  reality  of 
them,  and  spontaneously  she  longed  for  Mathewson, 
with  his  kind,  homely  face  and  his  easy,  unruffled 
manner,  and  with  that  sense  of  good-humored  repose 
which  he  always  seemed  to  bring  into  the  room  when 
he  came.  Thinking  of  him,  she  suddenly  laughed 
16  233 


THE    YARDSTICK    MAST 


aloud,  light,  cheery,  girlish  laughter.  "  Laugh  at 
the  goblins,"  he  had  said.  She  shook  her  tiny  fist  in 
the  air  threateningly,  and  laughed  once  more.  He 
was  right.  They  were  gone;  gone  in  a  flash.  She 
laughed  again  at  their  discomfiture,  and  busied  her- 
self with  the  flowers. 

Almost  at  once  she  was  humming.  The  tune  was 
that  of  "  Amici."  Perhaps  that  was  because  it  was 
connected  with  him.  At  any  rate  it  was  the  first 
melody  which  had  popped  into  her  mind,  and  from 
there  to  her  throat  and  lips.  Her  deft  fingers  plied 
among  the  stems,  arranging  them  swiftly  and  prettily, 
with  that  artistic  sense  which  almost  every  woman 
has  with  flowers.  There  were  more  than  enough  for 
the  bowl,  she  found,  and  she  looked  about  thought- 
fully, wondering  what  she  would  do  with  the  left-overs. 
She  spied  a  small  vase  which  stood,  empty  now,  upon 
the  wide  plate-rail  above  the  alcove  desk.  With  a 
little  cry  of  pleasure  she  danced  across  and  climbed, 
lithely,  upon  the  big  armchair  below  it.  They  were 
his  flowers,  she  thought.  He  would  not  begrudge  her 
having  a  few,  even  if  he  had  sent  them  to  Mrs.  Jones. 
She  jumped  down,  the  vase  in  her  hands,  and  hastened 
back  to  the  table.  She  liked  his  thought  fulness. 
For  all  his  easy,  modern  frankness,  there  was  a  touch 
of  the  quaint,  old-time  courtesy  about  him,  that  old- 
time  courtesy  which  she  had  read  about  in  books,  and 

234 


MATHEWSON'S  PLAN  DOES  NOT  WORK  OUT 

had  always  delighted  in.  She  wondered,  all  at  once, 
why  Mr.  Jones  had  looked  so  displeased  about  it,  and 
why  he  had — she  burst,  voluntarily,  into  low,  soft 
laughter.  Goblins  again! 

The  vase  was  filled  now ;  the  last  flower  crowded  in. 
She  stood  off  a  few  steps  and  looked  at  it,  her  head  on 
one  side,with  the  air  of  a  connoisseur.  Then  she  nod- 
ded happily  and  picking  it  up,  she  carried  it  across 
to  its  former  place.  She  was  balancing  herself  upon 
the  edges  of  the  big  chair,  when  she  became  conscious 
that  somebody  was  behind  her,  and  she  turned  her 
head  about,  with  circumspect  caution,  to  see  who  it 
was.  Then  she  smiled  a  welcome. 

"  Oh !  "  she  cried. 

"  Hello,  little  pardner ! "  he  said,  marveling  at  the 
picture ;  the  fresh  flowers  and  the  flushed  young  face 
so  close  together.  "  Arranging  my  flowers,  eh?  " 

She  placed  the  vase  carefully  against  the  wall. 

"  There ! "  she  said,  clapping  her  hands  gayly. 
"Isn't  that  pretty?" 

"Fine."  He  gave  her  his  hand  to  help  her 
down. 

"  I  wanted  a  few  in  here,  where  I  could  see  them 
when  I  was  working.  There  were  so  many,  but  then," 
she  added,  "  I  suppose  it  was  selfish,  wasn't  it?  " 

She  gazed  up  at  him  for  the  barest  second  and  then, 
before  he  could  answer,  she  asked : 

235 


"  Why  should  he  hate  your  flowers  ?  " 

"Who?" 

"  Oh,  I  oughtn't  to  have  said  that,"  she  said, 
guiltily.  "  I  promised —  Why,  you're  not  ready 
for  dinner,"  she  turned  the  subject  quickly,  that  little 
motherly  way,  which  he  liked,  in  her  manner.  "  You 
must  hurry.  You'll  be  late.  But — "  She  came 
closer  to  him  and  asked  in  a  half  whisper :  "  What 
was  in  the  telegram  ?  " 

"Telegram?"  He  shook  his  head.  "No,  it 
wasn't  good  news." 

"  Then  you  must  tell  me,"  she  urged. 

"  Must  tell  you  because  it  wasn't  good  news  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  of  course,"  she  nodded  gravely.  "  Per- 
haps I  can  help  you." 

For  reply  Mathewson  caught  up  her  hands  im- 
pulsively. 

"  You  blessed  little  woman,"  he  cried. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  asked,  looking  straight  up  at 
him,  with  no  trace  of  embarrassment.  "  Have  you 
lost?" 

"That?  No,  not  yet."  He  dropped  her  hands, 
and  the  momentary  light  on  his  face  faded.  "  There's 
still  a  chance,"  he  said,  dully.  "  They  hit  us  hard 
to-day.  I  don't  know.  Somehow  I  don't  care  so 
much."  He  hesitated.  "  It's— Daddy,"  he  said. 

The  girl  drew  in  her  breath,  sharply. 
236 


MATHEWSON'S  PLAN  DOES  NOT  WORK  OUT 

"  Oh,  he's  worse  ?  "  she  asked  in  an  awed  little 
voice. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  Then,  rallying  quickly,  he  fell 
back  upon  his  old  phrase.  "  But  it'll  come  out  all 
right,"  he  declared.  "  It's  got  to.  Cloudy  to-day, 
you  know;  sunshine  to-morrow.  There  always  are 
compensations." 

The  girl  had  glanced  toward  the  door  and,  instinct- 
ively, he  turned.  It  was  the  butler. 

"  The  cab,  sir." 

"  All  right,  Higgins.  Have  them  get  my  trunk 
down.  It's  all  ready." 

He  turned  slowly  back  to  the  girl,  who  was  staring 
at  him,  aghast. 

"  Your  trunk !  "  she  repeated. 

He  nodded,  smiling,  although  his  heart  was  heavy 
behind  his  smile.  He  had  hoped  to  see  her  before  he 
left,  and  yet  he  had  dreaded  it,  even  while  he  hoped. 
Upstairs,  while  he  had  thrown  his  few  belongings  into 
the  trunk,  he  had  thought  much  of  her,  and  he  had 
decided,  with  a  suddenly  obtained  knowledge  of  him- 
self, that  it  was  better  for  her,  as  well  as  for  everyone 
else,  that  he  should  go.  It  was  the  same  old  story,  he 
had  told  himself.  He  was  still  a  wandering  pariah. 
But,  at  least,  he  would  not  bring  trouble  to  mar  her 
girlish  sweetness.  Even  as  he  told  himself  this,  how- 
ever, his  heart  was  shot  through  with  a  pain,  the 

237 


THE  YARDSTICK:  MAN 


poignancy  of  which  startled  him  with  a  comprehen- 
sion of  what  it  meant.  With  solid  will-power,  he  had 
indomitably  shut  it  out  of  his  heart,  pain  and  pleasure 
alike.  He  had  planned  the  way  in  which  he  should 
meet  her,  if  he  saw  her  again  before  he  left.  And  yet, 
it  was  hard,  bitterly  hard,  now  as  he  looked  down 
into  her  dear  face  which,  in  her  innocence,  displayed 
every  trifling  emotion  within. 

"  You're  going  away  ?  "  she  asked,  and  face  and 
voice  alike  told  him  that  the  idea  was  incredible  to 
her. 

"  Yes,"  he  nodded  with  assumed  lightness,  "  that's 
why  I'm  not  getting  ready  for  dinner." 

"  You  didn't  tell  me,"  said  the  girl,  instinctively 
coming  closer  to  him.  "  You're  not  going  for  good  ? 
You're  coming  back  ?  " 

Once  more  he  cramped  the  iron  bands  of  his  will 
upon  his  heart.  She  should  not  know  what  it  caused 
him.  She  must  never  know.  It  would  not  be  fair. 
She  was  all  that  was  young  and  sweet  and  innocent 
and  worthy,  and  he  was  old — very  old,  he  felt  to- 
night— and  ugly,  and  useless.  The  long,  careless 
years  came  back  to  judge  him. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  this  is  good-by.  You've  been 
mighty  good  to  me,  little  pardner.  Talk  about  com- 
pensations ;  you  don't  know  what  you  have  meant  to 
me."  It  was  more  than  he  had  meant  to  say,  but  he 

238 


MATHEWSON'S  PLAN  DOES  NOT  WORK  OUT 

quivered  with  the  truth  of  it.  "  In  the  midst  of  sham 
and  trickery  and  littleness.  Why,  you're  as  true  and 
as  real  and  as  sweet  as  those  roses."  The  bands 
about  his  heart  were  loosening,  but  he  blundered  on. 
"  You've  taught  me  a  lot,  little  pardner."  His  tone 
was  very  tender.  "  I'm  a  better  man " 

"  Oh,  no,"  broke  in  Mabel,  flushing  happily. 
"  That  isn't  true.  It  can't  be.  I'm  nothing  but—" 
she  gazed  up  at  him  with  simple,  wide-eyed  frankness. 
"  But  I  don't  want  you  to  go,"  she  said. 

He  tried  to  hold  himself  in  leash;  tried  and  tried 
again. 

"  You  don't  want  me  to  go?  "  he  repeated  slowly, 
delaying,  and  all  the  time  he  was  looking  down  into 
the  fresh,  flushed  face,  with  all  its  tender  sweetness. 
The  dear,  slender  shoulders  were  close  at  his  side.  In 
a  rush,  he  gave  up  the  hopeless  fight.  He  leaned 
down  over  her  and  caught  her  hand. 

"  Little  pardner,"  he  whispered.  "  I  love  you.  I 
love  you,  do  you  hear?  I'd  planned  not  to  tell  you, 
but  my  plans  never  work  out.  I  can't  help  telling 
you.  I  love  you." 

She  saw  it  all  in  his  eyes,  and  she  shrank  back  be- 
fore it.  She  had  caught  her  breath  and  held  it,  from 
his  first  words. 

«  You— love— me?  "  she  whispered,  her  wide  eyes 
gazing  up  at  him  in  wonder  and  unbelief. 

239 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN" 


love — me?  "  she  repeated.  Then,  at  last  seeming  to 
understand,  she  drew  her  hands  away,  and  buried  her 
face  in  them. 

"  Little  pardner,"  he  called  softly,  hovering  over 
her  miserably.  "  I — I  didn't  mean  to  frighten  you." 

Slowly  her  hands  dropped  to  her  sides,  uncovering 
eyes  suddenly  shy,  but  devoid  of  tears. 

"  I'm  not  frightened,"  she  said.  "  I  was  just  try- 
ing to  realize.  I  didn't  dream " 

There  was  a  step  on  the  stairs  outside.  He  heard 
it. 

"  Dream,  then,"  he  whispered  swiftly,  his  face  close 
to  hers,  "  and  so  will  I.  It's  better  so.  I  had  no 
right,  and  then — some  day — but  you'll  still  be  my 
little  pardner,  won't  you?  " 

"  Yes."     Her  lips  framed  the  unspoken  word. 

"  Then  good-by."  He  caught  one  hand  in  both  of 
his,  for  a  fleeting  second.  "•  Don't  worry."  All  the 
long  pent-up  tenderness  vibrated  in  his  voice.  "  Sun- 
shine to-morrow,  you  know,  and — laugh  at  the  gob- 
lins." 

He  stepped  away  from  her,  just  as  the  butler  ap- 
peared in  the  door  once  more. 

"  All  ready,  sir." 

"  All  right,  Higgins."  Mathewson  followed  him. 
On  the  threshold,  however,  he  turned  and  looked  back. 

"  Good-by — little  pardner,"  he  whispered. 
240 


MATHEWSON'S  PLAN  DOES  NOT  WORK  OUT 

Only  her  look  answered  him,  but  he  turned  away 
satisfied. 

As  for  her,  it  seemed  as  if  she  could  not  speak  nor 
think  in  that  moment.  The  world  had  become  sud- 
denly a  genial  cataclysm,  a  kindly  chaos.  She  heard, 
dully,  the  door  close  below  and  she  heard,  too,  the 
noise  of  the  motor  which  bore  him  away.  And  still 
she  stood  staring  down  the  lighted  hallway. 

At  last,  however,  she  turned  slowly.  The  flowers 
seemed  to  beckon  her.  They  were  his.  She  sank  in 
the  chair  before  them,  but  her  eyes,  which  gazed  at 
them,  were  misty  with  that  strange,  sweet  trouble,  out 
of  which  springs  all  the  happiness  of  the  world. 

"  He — loves — me,"  she  whispered. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

GOBLINS 

SOME  minutes  later,  the  butler,  returning  to  an- 
nounce dinner,  found  her  still  there,  sitting  be- 
fore the  flowers. 

"  They're  not  down  yet,  Higgins,"  she  said,  not 
looking  up. 

He  bowed  gloomily,  and  started  to  withdraw. 

"  Was  that  the  bell,  Higgins?  "  she  called,  starting 
up  as  she  thought  she  heard  its  muffled  ringing. 

"  I  think  so,  Miss." 

"  Nobody  was  expected  for  dinner,  Higgins  ?  " 

"  No,  Miss." 

She  listened  to  his  measured  step  upon  the  stairs. 
Then,  her  curiosity  getting  the  better  of  her  as  she 
heard  the  door  open  below,  she  hurried  out  into  the 
hall  and  hung  over  the  railing,  eagerly.  Had  he 
come  back  ?  Her  heart  beat  with  oppressive  lightness 
at  the  thought.  No.  She  knew  the  voice,  but  it  was 
not  his. 

"  Why,  father !  "  she  cried,  wonderingly. 

"  Yes,  it  is  I,"  called  Mr.  Wright,  coming  into 
sight  below  and  beginning  to  climb  the  stairway. 


GOBLINS 

"  Why,  what  are  you  doing  here  ?  "  asked  the  girl 
anxiously.  "  Is  anything  wrong  at  home?  " 

"  No,  dear,"  he  said. 

As  he  came  to  the  landing,  however,  she  saw  that 
his  face  was  grave  and  troubled. 

"  What  is  it,  father?  "  she  insisted. 

"  Oh,  nothing  at  all,"  he  said,  putting  his  arm 
about  her,  with  a  feigned  carelessness  which  did  not 
deceive  her.  "  I  just  wanted  to  see  Mr.  Mathewson  a 
minute,"  he  explained,  as  they  entered  the  library. 

At  the  sound  of  that  name,  Mabel,  with  a  little  cry, 
broke  away  from  him  and  faced  him. 

"  But  he  is  gone." 

"  Gone !  " 

"  Yes.     Not  ten  minutes  ago." 

The  wrinkles  of  his  brow  deepened. 

"That  is  unfortunate,"  he  said.  "What  time 
will  he  be  back?  " 

"  But  he  isn't  coming  back." 

"  Not  coming  back  ?  "  he  repeated,  incredulously. 
"  What  do  you  mean ?  Where  has  he  gone?  " 

"I  don't  know,  father."  The  girl  spoke  with 
great  concern.  She  saw  how  perturbed  he  was. 
"  Why,  what's  the  matter?  "  she  urged. 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  he  said.  "  That  is,  nothing  much, 
only — "  he  added,  plainly  worried,  "it  is  essential 
that  I  see  him  at  once." 

343 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


The  girl  hesitated.  It  was  clear  that  something 
was  wrong,  and  it  was  just  as  clear  that  it  was  some- 
thing which  he  did  not  wish  to  discuss  with  her.  She 
looked  up  with  quick  relief,  therefore,  when  Mr. 
Jones,  in  dinner  jacket,  black  tie  and  expansive  white 
shirt-bosom,  stopped  in  the  doorway  and  peered  in, 
frowning  with  surprise. 

"  Oh,"  she  cried.  "  Perhaps  Mr.  Jones  can  tell 
you.  Mr.  Jones,  do  you  know  where  Mr.  Mathewson 
went?" 

"  Good  evening,  doctor."  Jones  nodded  a  greet- 
ing. "  He's  gone,  has  he?  "  he  replied  to  Mabel. 
"  No,  I  haven't  the  slightest  idea,"  he  added,  with 
ostentatious  indifference. 

He  was  annoyed.  Was  he  never  to  hear  the  last  of 
this  man  Mathewson,  and  was  there  not  enough  on  his 
hands  to-night,  without  Mr.  Wright  turning  up  to 
complicate  things  still  more?  He  passed  them  with- 
out another  word,  and  sat  down  by  the  side  of  the 
table,  picking  up  the  paper  as  if  to  rudely  ignore 
their  presence. 

"  But  I  must  find  him,"  said  Mr.  Wright,  looking 
after  him,  perplexed.  "  A  good  deal  depends  upon 
it.  I — I — would  Mrs.  Jones  know?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,"  growled  Jones,  rattling  the  paper  angrily. 
He  wondered  curiously,  however,  why  it  should  be  so 
imperative  to  find  Mathewson.  At  any  rate  he  could 


GOBLINS 


afford  to  be  polite  to  the  preacher.     "  Anything  I 
can  do,  doctor?  "  he  added,  less  gruffly. 

"Why,  no."  Mr.  Wright  hesitated.  "I  don't 
know.  Perhaps  under  the  circumstances  you  can  ad- 
vise me."  Again  he  hesitated,  but  the  longing  for 
assurance,  the  desire  to  put  an  end  to  his  anxiety  at 
last  overcame  him.  "  You — you  probably  know  a 
railroad  called  The  Pacific  and  Eastern?"  he  sug- 
gested, tentatively. 

"  I  should  think  so,"  Jones  laughed  savagely.  He 
put  down  his  paper,  suddenly  interested.  "  Well  ?  " 

The  preacher  moved  unconsciously  closer  to  him 
and  spoke  hurriedly,  almost  apologetically. 

"  When  I  was  here  to-day,"  he  said,  "  he  sold  me 
some  stock  of  that  railroad.  On  the  way  home  I 
began  to  worry.  I  know  little  about  such  things,  and 
I  read  in  the  paper " 

Jones's  fist  thudding  heavily  upon  the  table  broke 
in  upon  him. 

"  He  lied  to  me,"  declared  Jones.  "  Here,  not  half 
an  hour  ago.  He  told  me  he  hadn't  sold  it." 

Mr.  Wright  shook  his  head  deprecatingly. 

"  You  must  have  misunderstood  him,"  he  said 
mildly.  t 

"  No,"  growled  Jones.  "  He's  fooled  most  every- 
body, but  he  hasn't  fooled  me,  for  all  his  talk.  How 
much  was  it  ?  "  he  demanded. 

245 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


Mr.  Wright,  bewildered  and  more  troubled  than 
ever,  hesitated. 

"  About  thirteen  hundred  dollars,"  he  said  at  last. 

"  Oh,"  said  Jones,  rather  contemptuously.  "  At 
what  price?  " 

"  I— I  don't  know." 

"  You  don't  know  ?    Well,  you  have  the  stock  ?  " 

"  No,  he  is  going  to  bring  it  to  me  in  a  day  or 
so,  I  believe,"  explained  Mr.  Wright. 

Jones  leaned  forward. 

"  And  he  has  your  money  ?  "  he  demanded  roughly. 
"  And  you  haven't  anything  to  show  for  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  that  is  all  right."  The  preacher  nodded, 
with  ready  satisfaction.  "  I  have  his  word.  That  is 
good  enough  for  me." 

"His  word  I"  Jones  jumped  to  his  feet  and 
walked  away  two  or  three  steps,  to  quiet  his  rising 
irritation.  "  Why,  it's  absurd,  doctor,"  he  said, 
turning  on  the  preacher.  "  It's  not  business.  You 
can  take  a  man's  word  for  almost  anything — except 
money.  And  his  word !  " 

Mr.  Wright  tried  to  ignore  the  contempt  in  his 
tone. 

"  I  am  sorry  I  said  anything  about  it,"  he  said 
quietly.  "  But  it  is  foolish  to  worry  about  money, 
and  I  was  worrying.  It  will  be  all  right,"  he  added. 
'*  Why,  he  guaranteed  I  wouldn't  lose." 

246 


GOBLINS 


"  He  guaranteed !  "  exclaimed  Jones.  "  Now  listen 
to  me.  You  paid  him  by  check?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  we've  got  him.     Stop  payment  on  it." 

The  preacher  looked  at  him  in  surprise,  and  shook 
his  head. 

"  No,  that  wouldn't  be  right  to  him." 

"  Right  to  him?  "  repeated  Jones,  aggravated  al- 
most beyond  endurance.  "  Oh,  you've  got  to  be 
practical,  doctor.  The  stock  is  almost  worthless.  It 
won't  bring  half,  to-morrow,  what  it  did  to-day. 
That's  why  he  sold  it.  Don't  you  see?  To  get  out 
from  under  himself." 

The  preacher  stared  at  him  aghast. 

"  I — I  cannot  believe  that,"  he  stammered. 
"  Worthless  !  "  he  added  in  a  half  whisper. 

"  Don't  you  suppose  I  know  what  I'm  talking 
about?"  Jones  demanded,  hurrying  on.  "Why,  I 
know  every  move  that  has  been  made  in  Pacific  and 
Eastern  for  the  last  two  months.  I'm  a  rich  man  to- 
night, doctor,"  he  continued  proudly,  "  and  I've  made 
most  of  it  out  of  Pacific  and  Eastern.  Why,  Carna- 
han  is  a  friend  of  mine." 

The  girl,  who  had  been  standing  at  her  father's 
elbow  with  wide  eyes,  listening,  caught  her  breath  at 
the  mention  of  the  name. 

"  Carnahan  !  "  she  gasped. 
247 


THE    YABDSTICK    MAN 


Jones  looked  at  her  sharply. 

"  Yes,"  he  nodded.  "  Now  be  sensible,  doctor,"  he 
urged.  "  I  feel  responsible  in  a  way.  It  was  in  my 
house — "  Angry  memory  flooded  back  upon  him. 
"  You  stop  payment  on  that  check,"  he  commanded 
harshly. 

To  his  surprise  and  to  the  preacher's  as  well,  Mabel 
put  her  hand  on  her  father's  arm. 

"  Don't,  father,"  she  said  in  a  half  whisper. 

"  What  ?  "  exclaimed  Jones. 

The  preacher  patted  her  hand  protectingly. 

"  There  is  some  mistake,"  he  said  in  a  deprecat- 
ing, conciliating  tone.  "  I  trust  Matty  implic- 
itly." Then,  as  Jones  jerked  back  his  head  in 
wrathful  hopelessness,  he  added  sternly :  "  You  never 
liked  him,  Jones.  You  are  prejudiced  against 
him." 

"Prejudiced!"  Such  a  defense  of  Mathewson 
was  too  much  for  Jones.  Would  the  fellow  remain 
with  him  always,  to  defy  him  through  the  mouths  of 
others?  "You're  blind,  both  of  you.  The  fellow's 
a  blackguard." 

At  the  word,  Mabel  shrunk  back  with  a  low  ex- 
clamation. 

"  That  is  strong  language,  Jones,"  warned  the 
preacher. 

"  Oh,  I'm  justified."  Vindictive  rage  for  the  mo- 
248 


GOBLINS 

ment  overcame  Jones's  better  judgment.  He  was 
beside  himself.  To  crush  Mathewson,  that  was  the 
one  thing  which  his  whole  being  cried  out  for.  "  He 
left  my  house  because  he  was  turned  out.  Do  you 
understand?  Oh,  I'm  half  crazy  with  it.  And  you 
say  I'm  prejudiced.  Blackguard!  Is  there  anything 
worse  than  a  man  who  will  try  to  make  love  to  a 
friend's  wife — "  he  had  lowered  his  voice  instinctively 
— "  and  when  he  is  a  guest,  too  ?  "  He  paused,  him- 
self, before  the  enormity  of  the  offense.  "  I — I 
ought  to  have  killed  him." 

The  two  before  him  started  back,  as  if  his  clenched, 
shaking  fists  had  dealt  them  a  blow. 

"  Matty !  "  said  the  preacher,  in  an  awed  voice. 
"  It  is  incredible." 

The  girl,  her  face  suddenly  white,  only  stared 
with  wide,  unseeing  eyes  at  Jones's  red,  twitching 
face. 

"  I  tell  you,  it's  true."  Jones  stopped.  Reaction 
had  set  in,  reaction  which  brought  with  it  that  terrify- 
ing dizziness,  that  blurring  vision.  It  sobered  him. 
Caution,  which  he  had  thrown  to  the  winds,  returned. 
He  had  gone  too  far.  "  I  can  trust  you  not  to  men- 
tion the  matter,"  he  hurried  on.  "  Of  course  my  wife 
is  above  reproach.  I  oughtn't  to  have  told  you  but 
—you  mustn't  lose  that  money.  You'll  stop  pay- 
ment on  that  check,  now?  "  he  urged. 
17  249 


THE   YAEDSTICK   MAN 


In  the  pause  which  followed,  Mabel's  hand  once 
more  lifted  mechanically.  Then  it  faltered  and 
dropped,  and  the  girl  turned  miserably  away. 

"  No,  Jones,"  said  the  preacher  at  last,  quietly. 
"  It  was  a  bargain.  I  can  lose  the  money,  but  I  shall 
keep  the  faith.  Poor  Matty ! "  he  added  with  a 
sigh. 

Jones  stared  at  him  blankly.  Anger  at  the 
preacher's  stubbornness  surged  within  him,  but 
caution  crowded  it  down. 

"  Very  well.  I  wash  my  hands  of  it,"  he  said 
gruffly.  "  I've  done  my  duty,  more  than  my  duty. 
It  isn't  my  fault — "  He  broke  off  suddenly. 

A  door  had  slammed  upstairs,  and  he  heard  foot- 
steps on  the  stairs.  Almost  at  once  Professor  Trow- 
bridge,  in  a  threadbare  swallow-tail,  which  made  him 
look  taller  and  more  sharp-pointed  than  ever,  ap- 
peared in  the  doorway,  and,  behind  him,  Mrs.  Jones. 

Mr.  Wright  was,  to  the  professor,  one  of  those 
worthy  men  who,  in  spite  of  very  limited  mental 
qualifications,  did  an  excellent  work  in  the  ministry, 
and  were,  therefore,  commendable.  He  was  glad  to 
see  him,  of  course,  and  he  said  so,  with  patronizing 
amiability.  Mrs.  Jones,  however,  made  short  shrift 
of  his  greeting.  She  was  in  an  almost  panic-stricken 
hurry. 

"  We're  frightfully  late,"  she  declared  in  an  ag- 
250 


GOBLINS 


grieved  tone  as  if  someone  else  was  at  fault.  "  We 
must  go  right  down.  Oh,  how  do  you  do,  Mr. 
Wright?  You  will  stay  and  have  some  dinner  with 
us,  of  course?  " 

"  No,"  stammered  the  preacher,  "  I  cannot.  I 
think — I  will  stay  with  Mabel  for  a  few  minutes — if 
you  don't  mind." 

"  Oh,  not  at  all."  She  was  immensely  relieved. 
To  make  the  servants  prepare  for  an  extra  person, 
after  all  the  delay,  would  have  been  the  last  straw. 
"  It  wouldn't  be  a  bit  of  trouble,  Mr.  Wright,  not  a 
bit.  I'd  love  to  have  you  stay.  But,  of  course — 
well,  you'll  excuse  us,  won't  you?  You  know  how  it 
is — and  Mabel  can  come  down  later.  I'm  sorry,"  she 
added  from  the  door.  "You're  sure  you  won't 
change  your  mind?  Well,  I  don't  wish  to  urge  you. 
Good  night."  It  was  not  until  they  were  halfway 
downstairs,  that  she  remembered  that  Mathewson  was 
not  with  them. 

"  I  cannot  have  been  so  deceived,"  said  the 
preacher,  half  to  himself,  when  their  voices  had  died 
away  below.  He  glanced  across  at  the  girl  who 
stood,  her  back  to  him,  beside  the  table.  "  Mabel," 
he  began,  "  why  did ' 

"  Oh,  don't  ask  me  anything,"  broke  out  the  girl,  in 
a  choked,  stifled  voice.     "  Please,"  she  begged, 
can't  stand  it,     I  want  to  be  alone.     Oh,  I  know  I'm 

251 


THE    YAEDSTICK    MAX 


selfish.  Forgive  me.  I'm  sorry  you're  worried, 
but " 

The  preacher  had  forgotten  his  own  questionings. 
lie  came  to  her  now,  and  put  his  arm  gently  about 
her. 

"  Mabel,  child,"  he  said  soothingly. 

"  Oh,  don't."  She  shrunk  away  from  him.  "  I'm 
not  worth  it.  I — I — lied  to  you  to-day.  Oh, 
father !  "  she  implored  brokenly,  "  won't  you — please 
— go  away?  " 

He  waited,  silently,  a  few  seconds. 

"  Yes,  dear,"  he  said  at  last ;  "  if  you  wish  it.  If 
you're  sure  I  can't  help " 

He  stopped  as  she  shook  her  head.  Then  he 
turned  and  walked  slowly  across  to  the  door,  his  face 
lifted  upward,  his  eyes  closed. 

"  Mabel,  child,"  he  said  again,  on  the  threshold. 
"  There's  a  world  of  love  up  at  the  home,  waiting  for 
you,  whenever " 

"  Oh,  I  know,"  sobbed  the  girl.     "  I  know." 

Tears  rushed  into  the  old  man's  eyes. 

"  Good  night,  dear,"  he  said  simply,  and  went 
quietly  away. 

He  heard  the  noise  of  talk  in  the  dining  room  be- 
low, as  he  passed  through  the  hall.  He  shook  his 
head  to  himself,  slowly.  Matty!  His  girl,  Mabel! 
Outside  in  the  dark  street  he  lifted  his  face  to  the 

252 


GOBLINS 


starry  heavens,  and  prayed  devoutly.  He  had  for- 
gotten all  about  the  thirteen  hundred  dollars,  and  the 
stock  which  Jones  said  was  worthless. 

Upstairs  in  the  library  the  girl,  for  some  moments 
after  she  was  left  alone,  stood  shaking  with  repressed 
sobs.  She  was  trying  to  think;  trying  pitifully  to 
understand.  The  cruel  sentences  she  had  heard 
dinned  in  her  ears.  Must  she  believe  it  ?  There  was 
so  much  to  bear  it  out,  so  much  that  she  remembered 
now  against  her  will.  And  he  had  gone  so  suddenly. 
She  shut  her  teeth  bravely,  and  held  back  the  rush  of 
tears. 

She  tried  to  remember  him  as  she  had  seen  him  in 
those  last  few  sweet  moments.  Yes,  she  loved  him. 
Her  aching  heart  knew  how  much,  now.  Her  glance 
fell  upon  the  flowers.  "  As  sweet  as  those  roses," 
he  had  said.  Mechanically  she  followed  the  trail  of 
his  words.  "  Compensations  " — "  Little  pardner,  I 
love  you."  Her  lips,  trembling,  formed  the  words: 
"  Sunshine  to-morrow." — "  Laugh  at  the  goblins." 

"  Laugh  at  the  goblins,"  she  repeated. 

Suddenly  she  felt  them  all  about  her.  They  were 
trying  to  chatter  at  her,  and  their  voices  sounded  like 
Mr.  Jones's  voice,  and  their  laughter  like  his  bitter 
laughter. 

"  Goblins !  "  Her  heart  lifted  with  a  new  hope. 
She  tried  to  laugh. 

£53 


THE    YAEDSTICK   MAN 


"  Goblins !  "  She  reiterated  it  to  herself,  insistent- 
ly, again  and  again.  And  then,  throwing  herself  into 
a  chair  before  the  flowers,  she  buried  her  face  in  her 
arms,  laughing  and  crying,  hysterically. 

"  Goblins,"  she  whispered.     "  Goblins." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE   CRISIS 

IT  was  not  until  the  early  morning  light  was  slant- 
ing in  through  the  windows,  that  Jones  finally  fell 
into  a  restless  sleep.  That  which  he  had  fought 
for  doggedly,  all  night  long,  he  finally  obtained 
through  sheer  exhaustion. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  suspicion,  which  made  his  ears 
sharp  for  every  unusual  sound  in  the  night's  silence. 
She  had  taken  his  carefully  planned  explanation  re- 
garding Mathewson  very  quietly,  but  he  knew  better 
than  to  place  any  reliance  upon  that.  Her  saying 
that  Roger  might  at  least  have  said  good-by  to 
her,  probably  was  merely  a  blind.  "  Roger ! " 

Perhaps  it  was  the  eagerness  with  which  he  looked 
forward  to  the  day  to  come ;  the  day  when  that  thing, 
toward  which  all  his  hopes  were  centered,  would 
finally  come  to  pass ;  the  day  when  that  wealth,  upon 
which  he  should  build  a  new  happiness,  infinitely 
more  splendid  than  the  old,  a  happiness  which  would 
by  its  glamour  charm  her  back  to  him,  would  be 
solidly  his. 

Neither  of  these,  however,  explained  that  heavy 
255 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


thumping  of  his  temples  against  the  pillow  when  he 
tried,  again  and  again,  to  force  himself  to  sleep;  or 
the  tingling  nerves,  which  twitched  and  quivered 
throughout  his  body ;  or  his  head's  weird  dizziness 
v.hen  he  walked  across  the  room;  or  that  blank,  black 
depression  which  surged  over  him  like  a  sudden  wave 
out  of  the  night,  in  the  midst  of  all  his  greedy  plans 
for  the  morrow. 

Time  and  again  he  gritted  his  teeth  and  fairly 
fought  for  sleep,  tossing  from  side  to  side,  holding 
his  throbbing  head  against  the  pillow  by  sheer  force 
of  will ;  and  each  time  he  failed  in  his  struggle  against 
this  invincible  enemy.  Each  attempt  ended  with  a 
fit  of  temper,  futile  irritation  against  a  force  he  could 
not  overcome.  He  had  risen  and  smoked  violently, 
with  the  hope  of  drugging  himself  into  drowsiness. 
He  had  tried  to  read.  He  had  sat  by  the  open  win- 
dow, to  let  the  cool  breeze  blow  in  upon  his  hot  face. 
But  nothing  helped.  Sleep  had  not  been  for  him 
that  night. 

He  was  awakened  by  a  persistent  knocking  at  his 
door. 

"  Mr.  Sheldon  wishes  you  to  call  him  up,  sir,  just 
as  soon  as  possible." 

It  was  Higgins's  voice.  Jones  rolled  out  of  bed 
and  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  only  a  few  minutes 
after  seven.  What  was  the  matter  with  Sheldon, 

256 


THE    CRISIS 


anyhow?  Nevertheless  he  hurried  into  his  clothes. 
He  was  going  to  have  a  telephone  in  his  own  room 
after  this,  he  grumbled  to  himself ;  one  that  could  be 
switched  off  and  on  the  main  line  at  will.  His  head 
was  heavy,  and  ached  with  a  dull,  pulsing  ache. 
Looking  in  the  glass  to  tie  his  cravat,  he  was  startled 
to  see  how  sallow  and  sunken  his  cheeks  looked,  how 
wide  were  the  black  creases  under  his  eyes.  He  was 
having  a  good  deal  to  bear,  he  told  himself  with  a 
rush  of  self-pity,  but — his  teeth  clicked  fiercely — he 
would  bear  it.  All  his  life  he  had  done  right.  There 
was  no  question  in  his  mind  about  that.  He  had 
squared  himself  with  every  line  of  his  creed.  In  the 
long  run,  as  he  had  told  the  professor  the  night  be- 
fore, right  won.  His  nerves  no  longer  twitched.  He 
was  merely  shaky  and  limp,  as  he  hurried  out  of  the 
room  and  down  the  stairs  to  the  library. 

"  Hello,  Sheldon  ?     What  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  That  you,  Jones  ?  "  There  was  something  in  the 
unusually  abrupt  voice  which  startled  Jones.  "  Read 
the  paper  this  morning?  " 

A  premonition  flashed  through  Jones,  and  in  its 
wake  that  strange  depression  with  its  black  shadow. 

"  No ;  why?  "  he  managed  to  gasp. 

"  Well,  you  read  it,  that's  all.  Front  page,  last 
column.  You'd  better  get  down  to  the  office  as  quick 
as  you  can.  I'm  going  now.  Good-by." 

257 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


Jones  heard  the  receiver  at  the  other  end  hang  up 
with  a  jerk.  His  hand  groped  shakingly  for  the 
hook,  missed  it,  and  the  receiver  fell  noisily  upon  the 
desk.  He  picked  it  up  slowly  and  replaced  it,  staring 
blankly  straight  ahead  of  him  as  he  did  so.  With  an 
effort  he  threw  off,  momentarily,  the  weight  within, 
which  seemed  to  be  crowding  him  down,  and,  jumping 
up,  he  hurried  downstairs  to  the  dining  room.  His 
place  was  not  set  as  yet,  but  the  paper  was  there. 
He  seized  it  and  turned  to  the  last  column  of  the  front 
page.  This  is  what  he  read : 

PACIFIC  AND  EASTERN  COMING  EAST. 
ALLEN  HOL WORTHY  IN  TOWN. 

SAYS  THE  ROAD  WILL  HAVE  ITS  OWN   EASTERN 
CONNECTIONS    SHORTLY. 

PROPHESIES    GREAT    FUTURE. 
THROWS   DOWN   THE    GAUNTLET   TO  JOHN   P.   CAHNAHAN. 

"  Allen  Holworthy,  adopted  son  of  the  head  of  the 
Pacific  and  Eastern,  is  at  the  Plaza.  He  registered 
there  early  last  evening,  and  later  gave  out  a  signed 
interview,  which  stated  in  no  uncertain  words  that 
the  operations  against  Pacific  and  Eastern  in  yester- 
day's stock  market  were  largely  speculation  pure  and 

258 


THE    CRISIS 


simple.     He  says  that  the  failure  to  renew  the  con- 
tract formerly  existing  between  the  L.  &  B.  (of  which 
Mr.  John  P.  Carnahan  announced  yesterday  he  had 
obtained  control)  and  the  Pacific  and  Eastern,  had 
not  come  in  any  way  as  a  surprise  to  him.     On  the 
contrary,  it  had  been  expected  and  plans  had  been 
laid  whereby  the  Pacific  and  Eastern  would  have  an 
eastern  outlet  of  its  own.     When  questioned  as  to 
whether  this  meant  that  the  road  would  attempt  to 
build  a  line  parallel  to  the  L.  &  B.  into  Chicago,  Mr. 
Holworthy,  with  great  good  humor,  refused  to  make 
any  definite  statement.     Undoubtedly,  however,  this 
is  his  meaning.     Coming  as  it  does  directly  after  Mr. 
Carnahan's  startling  announcement,  published  yester- 
day, and  the  doubtful  weakness  of  Pacific  and  East- 
ern stock,  which  has  affected  the  entire  list,  Mr.  Hoi- 
worthy's  cheerful  statement  brings  an  entirely  differ- 
ent view  from  that  expressed  openly  by  financial  men, 
and  by  the  action  of  the  market,  yesterday.     With 
an  eastern  outlet  of  its  own,  the  Pacific  and  Eastern 
would  unquestionably  become  one  of  the  strongest 
transcontinental  railroad  properties  in  the  country." 

Jones's  hand  was  shaking  now ;  shaking  so  that  the 
paper  rattled  and  the  type  blurred.  He  sank  weakly 
into  his  chair.  The  weight  was  upon  him  once  more, 
that  heavy,  sickening  weight  which  seemed  to  crowd 

259 


THE    YAEDSTICK   MAK 


down  upon  his  vitals  crushingly.  He  rallied  from  it 
slowly.  Allen  Holworthy !  But  he  was  no  good, 
Carnahan  had  said.  A  decent,  good-natured  fellow, 
but  with  no  sense  of  business.  Easy-going ;  no  fight 
in  him.  He  remembered  the  words  clearly,  phrased 
in  Carnahan's  crisp,  arbitrary  manner.  No,  the 
thing  was  impossible.  Where  would  they  get  the 
money  ?  Wall  Street  wouldn't  be  likely  to  help  them 
much,  with  their  stock  down  to  nothing.  It  was 
probably  just  a  dream,  a  bluff  which  the  practical, 
every-day  world  would  call  with  savage  quickness. 
Of  course  the  stock  might  be  a  bit  stronger  that  morn- 
ing, but  it  would  be  only  temporary.  Carnahan  knew 
what  he  was  doing. 

Carnahan!  Jones's  confidence  returned  as  he 
thought  of  the  silent  little  magnate,  whose  shrewd 
brain  always  had  spelled  out  the  word  victory. 
About  the  ultimate  result  there  could  be  no  doubt, 
even  in  the  face  of  this  unexpected  announcement.  It 
might  mean  less  profit  to-day.  Jones's  brow  creased 
at  that  thought,  and  his  fist  clenched  angrily.  Why 
couldn't  this  fool  of  a  Holworthy  have  waited  a  day 
longer?  Why  couldn't  he  have  waited  until  he, 
Jones,  was  out  of  the  market? 

He  called  to  Higgins,  crossly,  and  picking  up  the 
paper,  he  read  the  rest  of  the  column.  There  was 
nothing  more  in  it  in  the  way  of  news.  Young  Hol- 

260 


THE    CRISIS 


worthy's  statement  itself  was  simple  and  straightfor- 
ward. There  was  a  ring  to  it,  however,  which  Jones 
didn't  like.  Could  it  be  that  they  had  not  been  sur- 
prised ?  Could  it  be — his  suspicion  rose  up  suddenly 
and  carried  him  a  step  farther — that  Carnahan  was 
in  some  arrangement  with  them?  That  seemed  im- 
possible, but  Jones  was  at  a  point  now  where  every- 
thing seemed  suspicious.  He  rushed  through  his 
breakfast  and  hurried  out,  trying  to  formulate  some 
reasonably  hopeful  explanation  out  of  the  chaos  of 
his  mind;  eager  to  get  within  the  ramparts  of  his 
office  for  whatever  struggle  was  to  come. 

As  he  threw  on  his  coat,  Mrs.  Jones  came  slowly 
down  the  stairs  and,  at  the  sight  of  her,  the  black 
depression  swept  over  him  inexplicably.  He  felt  all 
his  hopefulness  sagging  away  from  him.  There 
seemed  nothing  left.  It  was  unfair.  It  was  unjust. 
It  was  not  his  fault.  He  flared  up  within,  angry  at 
his  own  weakness ;  angry  at  all  this  series  of  events 
which  was  hounding  him;  and  angry  most  of  all, 
unreasonably,  at  her.  And  yet,  as  she  came  swiftly 
to  him,  his  mood  changed. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter,  Edward?"  she  asked, 
and  she  kissed  him. 

Suddenly  the  whole  wretched  business  was  at  his 
lips,  eager  to  be  spoken,  all  of  it.  He  felt  empty, 
tottering,  as  if  he  needed  her  support.  If  he  had 

261 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


followed  his  impulse  he  would  have  seized  her,  clung 
to  her,  stammered  his  whole  story  to  her  in  a  torrent 
of  words,  and  begged  her,  with  a  humility  which 
startled  him  now  as  he  felt  it,  and  with  womanish 
tears  which  he  felt  crowding  into  his  eyes,  to  stand  by 
him  and  help  him,  now  when  everything  seemed 
against  him,  when  he  was  weak  and  tired  and  out- 
worn. He  cleared  his  throat,  gruffly. 

"  I've  got  to  hurry,"  was  all  he  said,  hoarsely,  and 
turning,  he  plunged  out  into  the  bright  light  of  the 
street.  Habit  still  was  stronger  with  Jones  than  im- 
pulse. 

Early  as  he  was,  he  found  half  a  dozen  customers 
ahead  of  him.  He  caught  fragments  of  their  excited 
arguments  as  he  passed  through  the  room.  "  Hoi- 
worthy  !  Holworthy !  "  He  heard  the  name  half  a 
dozen  times,  hating  the  sound  of  it.  A  man  who  but- 
tonholed him  for  information  met  with  a  short  re- 
sponse, unusual  from  him.  Jones  felt  that  the  fellow 
stared  after  him  in  surprise.  Ordinarily  that  would 
have  mattered,  but  not  this  morning.  He  slammed 
the  door  into  his  private  office  behind  him. 

Sheldon  was  there,  walking  up  and  down  in  his 
leisurely,  tantalizing  way. 

"Well,  Jones,  what  do  you  think  about  it?"  he 
demanded. 

Jones  lit  a  cigar  and  told  him.     Somehow,  in  the 


THE    CRISIS 


every-day  surroundings  of  this  room  where  his  suc- 
cess had  been  built  up  slowly  but  steadily,  with  never 
a  break  in  the  steady  upward  march,  his  confidence 
returned.  It  was  a  bluff,  a  last  effort  to  pull  up  the 
sagging  stock.  Of  course  they  thought  they  could 
do  it,  but  they  couldn't.  He  explained  the  Holworthy 
situation  so  clearly  and  so  comprehensively,  that 
Sheldon  nodded  slowly.  More  than  that,  Jones 
swung  back  to  his  old  faith.  They  were  in  the  same 
boat  with  Carnahan,  and  Carnahan  always  won. 

Sheldon  delayed,  thoughtfully,  when  Jones  had 
finished. 

"  Maybe,"  he  said  more  doubtfully,  at  last.  "  But, 
Jones,"  he  went  on,  stopping  before  his  partner's 
desk,  "  I  have  a  hunch  we're  in  wrong.  I  don't 
know  why.  It's  a  hunch,  that's  all."  He  hesitated 
as  he  saw  the  worn,  haggard  look  of  Jones's  face. 
"  You  look  tired,  old  man,"  he  said. 

"I  didn't  sleep  much  last  night,"  Jones  said 
gruffly. 

Sheldon  stood  looking  down  at  him  a  moment  more. 

"Buck  up,  Jones,"  he  said  finally.  "We'll 
weather  it  all  right,  whatever  it  is." 

"  Sure,"  said  Jones,  swinging  abruptly  to  his  desk. 

It  was  a  sham,  however;  the  word,  the  nod,  the 
sorting  of  the  papers  on  his  desk,  the  attempt  to  fall 
into  the  customary  routine.  Sheldon's  words  had 

263 


THE    YARDSTICK    MAN 


shot  a  cold  chill  through  Jones.  He  was  really 
frightened  for  the  first  time.  When  Sheldon  had 
gone  he  gave  up  all  pretense.  He  closed  himself  in, 
and  sat  heavily  beside  the  ticker,  smoking  rapidly, 
waiting  for  the  opening;  his  face  drawn  and  ashen 
white ;  that  crushing  weight  crowding  him  down ;  con- 
scious of  nothing  but  hopeless  foreboding;  his  dry 
lips  repeating  over  and  over  again  that  single  phrase : 
"  We're  in  wrong ;  in  wrong ;  in  wrong !  " 

The  first  click  of  the  ticker,  however,  steadied  him. 
It  seemed  like  an  old  friend  chanting  its  old  tune  of 
steady,  upgrowing  success.  He  read  the  tape,  wait- 
ing tensely.  Thousands  of  others  were  waiting  in 
Wall  Street  that  morning.  Pacific  and  Eastern, 
until  yesterday  a  minor  issue,  practically  untouched 
by  the  speculative  fraternity,  was  suddenly  the  only 
stock  which  mattered.  What  effect  would  young 
Holworthy's  statement  have?  How  seriously  would 
Wall  Street  take  him?  What  backing  had  he ?  What 
would  Carnahan  do?  These  and  a  thousand  other 
questions  Wall  Street  asked,  and  the  only  answer 
which  mattered  to  most  of  them,  was  what  the  tape 
would  tell,  as  it  came  reeling  out  of  the  thousands 
of  remorseless  machines  that  morning. 

"  Pacific  and  Eastern  36." 

There  it  was  at  last,  a  net  gain  of  nearly  twelve 
points  at  the  opening.  Jones  stared  at  it,  and  then 

264 


THE    CRISIS 


let  the  tape  run  back  and  forth  two  or  three  times  in 
his  nervous  fingers.  Click,  click,  click.  There  was 
something  menacing  about  the  sound  of  the  ticker 
that  morning.  Jones  felt  it.  He  shuddered  con- 
vulsively, resting  his  weight  heavily  against  the  frame 
work. 

"  39V2."  Another  small  lot  of  Pacific  and  East- 
ern, and  a  startling  jump  in  price. 

"  41." 

"  44." 

"  46." 

It  seemed  as  if  there  was  nothing  but  Pacific  and 
Eastern  on  the  tape  this  morning.  One  after  another 
came  the  quick  jumps  in  price,  and  always  it  was 
small  lots  only  which  were  reported. 

Jones  wiped  the  cold  perspiration  from  his  face 
with  an  unsteady  hand. 

"  50." 

«  55." 

He  could  stand  it  no  longer.  Dizzily  he  tottered 
across  to  his  desk  and  called  up  Sheldon.  A  few 
minutes  later  the  receiver  clattered  noisily  upon  the 

hook. 

"God!"  he  said,  under  his  breath.  His  mind 
groped  for  some  hope  in  the  midst  of  the  shattering 
despair  which  was  upon  him.  "  A  corner ! 

His  bloodshot  eyes,  staring  straight  ahead, 
18  265 


THE   YAEDSTICK   MAN 


focused  upon  the  little  clock  which  ticked,  like  an 
animate  pulse-beat,  on  the  top  of  his  desk.  A  little, 
momentary  relief  came  to  him.  It  was  Saturday; 
only  an  hour  and  three-quarters  more.  But  the  hope 
ebbed  as  quickly  as  it  came.  So  much  could  happen 
in  an  hour  and  three-quarters.  The  muffled  noise 
and  confusion  from  the  customers'  room  sounded  al- 
most deafening  in  his  ears,  like  the  shouts  of  defeat ; 
and  from  across  by  the  window  came  the  steady  click, 
click  of  the  ticker,  the  roll  of  musketry  which  was 
mowing  down  all  his  hopes.  He  sat  there,  white  and 
shaking,  at  bay,  utterly  broken,  not  daring  to  look  at 
the  tape ;  not  daring  to  show  himself  beyond  the  bar- 
rier door;  not  daring  to  meet  the  eyes  of  his  clerks. 
It  was  all  over.  His  nails  bit  sharply  into  the  palms 
of  his  hands,  and  then  the  hulk  of  his  body  fell  for- 
ward against  his  desk.  He  buried  his  head  in  his 
arms,  and  cried  like  a  child.  His  dry,  exhausted 
sobs  filled  in  the  short  intervals  between  the  jerky 
clicking  of  the  ticker. 

Shortly,  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  It  startled 
him  into  self-possession.  Twice  he  essayed  to  speak. 

"  Busy."  It  was  scarcely  loud  enough  to  carry, 
but  he  thought  he  shouted  it,  and  somehow  the  single 
word  seemed  to  reassure  him  and  to  bring  back,  mo- 
mentarily, something  of  the  old  cunning,  the  old,  out- 
ward assurance.  Borne  up  by  this,  he  staggered  to 

266 


THE    CRISIS 


his  feet  and  across  to  the  ticker.  He  expected 
nothing  now  but  the  worst,  and  yet,  even  so,  the 
figures  on  the  tape  sent  a  dull  shock  trembling  through 
him.  Pacific  and  Eastern  had  passed  par.  It  was 
jumping  five  points  at  a  time ;  up,  up,  always  up. 

His  methodical,  mathematical  mind  could  figure, 
even  under  the  sagging  stress  which  was  upon  him, 
exactly  what  each  added  point  meant  to  him,  and 
now,  as  he  did  so,  the  whole  thing  rushed  upon  him  as 
if  it  were  all  new.  Blank  despair  gave  way,  before 
the  cold  figures,  into  a  mad  panic.  He  must  do 
something.  There  must  be  some  way  out.  He  could 
not  wait  there,  watching  the  world  slip  out  from 
under  his  feet.  A  new  fierce  vitality  stung  his  weak- 
ened, weighted  body  to  some  kind  of  action.  Carna- 
han !  Perhaps  Carnahan  could  help  him.  Without 
stopping  to  reason,  but  grabbing  at  the  only  straw 
that  his  mind  could  conjure  up,  he  seized  his  coat  and 
hat,  and  hurried  out  through  the  door  which  led  into 
the  main  hallway.  Unconsciously,  he  went  on  tip- 
toe past  the  doors  which  led  into  his  own  offices,  steal- 
ing along  like  a  thief.  He  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief 
as  the  elevator  started  on  its  downward  journey. 

Out  in  the  street  the  horrible  depression  came  back 
upon  him.  Everything  here  was  as  usual;  the 
bustling,  bright-faced  crowd,  the  clanging  surface- 
cars,  the  sharp,  brisk  wind  from  the  bay  which 

267 


THE    YAKDSTICK   MAN 


brought  healthy  color  to  the  cheeks  of  those  he 
passed.  Yes,  it  was  all  the  same  for  everybody  else, 
but  he — he  was  a  failure.  The  thought  closed  upon 
his  heart  like  the  grip  of  an  iron  hand.  He  felt  him- 
self stagger,  and  pulled  himself  up  by  sheer  force  of 
will,  ashamed  to  look  into  the  faces  about  him.  They 
all  knew.  They  must  know.  He  was  a  failure. 

Nevertheless  he  plodded  on.  He  had  headed  for 
the  Carnahan  offices  and  mechanically,  doggedly,  he 
kept  the  direction.  Carnahan  would  help  him  out. 
His  lips  kept  mumbling  over  the  hopeful  phrase.  In- 
wardly he  knew  that  he  had  no  right  to  expect  it,  but 
he  hoped  on,  until  he  stood  in  the  shadow  of  the 
building  which  was  his  destination.  Carnahan  would 
find  a  way  out.  He  always  did.  Carnahan  would 
feel  responsible  for  him,  and  would  help  him  out. 

He  shuffled  into  the  outer  office  and  sent  in  his  card, 
and,  suddenly  grateful  for  the  rest,  he  sat  down  and 
waited;  waited,  his  eyes  upon  the  farther  door 
through  which  his  sentence  would  come,  trying  to 
plan  what  he  should  say;  waited,  waited,  his  heart 
hammering  madly,  in  nerve-racking  suspense. 

At  last  the  door  opened. 

"  He  is  not  in,  sir,"  said  the  clerk  curtly. 

"  Not  in  ?  "  The  last  imaginary  support  which 
he  had  built  gave  away  from  beneath  him.  Of  course 
Carnahan  was  there.  Why  else  had  they  taken  his 

268 


THE    CRISIS 


card?     He  had  refused  to  see  him.     A  sudden  flare 
of  anger  steadied  Jones  for  a  moment. 

"  Very  well,"  he  said  in  something  like  his  old 
sharp  voice,  and,  bracing  his  shoulders  back  with  the 
last  relic  of  his  pride,  he  marched  out. 

Outside  in  the  street  once  more,  however,  he 
faltered,  his  shoulders  bowed,  his  body  limp  and 
heavy.  There  was  nowhere  to  go  now,  nowhere  but 
to  the  ruin  which  awaited  him  in  his  office.  Allen 
Hoi  worthy!  Could  he  find  him  and  beg  for  mercy? 
His  pride  was  gone.  He  would  do  anything;  any- 
thing, he  told  himself.  But  where  was  Holworthy? 
He  didn't  know. 

Perhaps,  back  at  the  office,  they  were  looking  for 
him,  wondering —  A  sudden  feeling  of  repulsion 
came  over  him  at  the  thought,  a  sudden,  craven  ter- 
ror. He  turned  sharply  into  a  side  street,  and  hur- 
ried down  it  as  rapidly  as  his  shaking  legs  would 
carry  him.  He  took  no  thought  of  his  sur- 
roundings, as  he  plunged  deeper  into  the  winding 
south-side  streets.  Anywhere,  away  from  his  office. 
He  was  in  full  retreat  now,  distrait,  his  mind  a  blur. 

A  little  German-Jew,  in  a  pawn  shop  not  far  from 
the  river,  at  about  half  past  eleven  that  morning,  sold 
a  revolver  and  some  cartridges  to  a  stocky  man  with 
a  white,  haggard  face  and  piercing,  terrified  eyes. 
He  saw  the  man's  stubby  hand  shake  as  it  took  up  the 

269 


THE   YARDSTICK   MAN 


purchases,  and  he  watched  his  customer  move,  sway- 
ingly,  out  into  the  street  once  more.  Then  he  shook 
his  head  with  a  wry  grin,  as  he  dropped  the  money 
into  the  till.  He  had  seen  something  very  like  it 
before. 

The  noonday  bells  found  Jones  still  tramping  in- 
determinately. They  roused  him  out  of  his  lethargy. 
It  was  over.  The  riot  on  the  Exchange  was  ended. 
A  sudden,  human  longing  came  to  him,  to  know  what 
had  happened.  Perhaps — He  grasped  at  the  forlorn 
chance  now  with  pitiful  swiftness.  For  the  last  half- 
hour  that  cold  steel  under  his  hand,  in  his  pocket,  had 
prodded  him  on,  shuddering,  in  new  abject  fear;  the 
fear  of  death.  Suicide ;  that  was  the  proper  end  for 
failures,  the  only  alternative,  it  had  seemed.  He  had 
gone  into  the  pawn-shop  bravely  enough.  But  it 
had  been  different  with  the  thing  in  his  pocket,  under 
his  hand.  He  could  face  the  office  now.  No  one 
need  ever  know.  Whatever  it  was,  it  was  over  now. 
The  Exchange  was  closed.  He  could  find  out,  and 
then —  He  put  off  even  the  thought,  and  plodded 
back  through  narrow  streets,  no  hope  ahead,  but 
dread  urging  him  on  from  behind. 


CHAPTER  XV 

OVER   THE   TELEPHONE 

MATHEWSON  arrived  at  the  office  of  Lofstein, 
Lane  &  Co.  at  about  nine- thirty  that  morning. 
Both  Lofstein  and  Lane  were  long  since  dead,  but 
Otto  Bruning,  who  had  succeeded  them,  sometimes 
called  the  "  Flying  Dutchman "  by  the  phrase- 
makers  of  Wall  Street,  never  had  dreamt  of  changing 
the  solid  old  firm  name.  All  the  traditions  of  the 
business  made  for  conservatism.  He  was  one  of  the 
solid  rocks  among  the  shifting  sands  of  the  Street. 
And  yet,  a  curious  strain  of  daring  ran  in  Otto 
Bruning's  German  blood,  which,  every  now  and  then, 
caused  him  to  turn  up,  unexpectedly,  in  some  big 
speculative  movement.  Perhaps  it  was  conscience  as 
well  as  daring,  for  he  was  invariably  upon  the  side  of 
right  and  justice,  or  of  what  he  conceived  to  be  right 
and  justice.  Perhaps  it  was,  in  a  measure,  that  oc- 
casional breaking  out  in  which  active  human  nature, 
too  long  restrained  by  traditional  conservatism,  will 
sometimes  indulge  itself.  At  any  rate,  this  quixotic 
strain  led  him  into  ventures  which  were  foreign  to  his 
usually  conservative  business  conduct,  and  which 

271 


THE    YAEDSTICK    MAN 


brought  to  him  the  nickname  which  the  men  of  the 
Street  had  given  him. 

The  present  case  was  an  example.  Of  course  his 
firm  had  been  Daniel  Holworthy's  only  representa- 
tives in  the  Street.  It  had  not  been  a  connection  of 
particularly  large  financial  returns,  but  Otto  Bruning 
always  had  had  a  liking,  which  was  almost  affection, 
for  the  old  man  himself.  That  liking,  more  than 
anything  else,  had  led  him  to  welcome  this  unknown 
adopted  son  at  one  o'clock  in  the  morning.  lie  had 
listened  to  the  slow,  good-humored  drawl;  he  had 
seen  the  shrewd  twinkle  in  the  younger  Holworthy's 
eyes ;  and  he  had  felt  the  underlying  strength  of  that 
solid  jaw,  which  the  smiling  mouth  masked  to  most 
first  observers.  He  had  liked  him  at  once,  not  only 
for  the  sake  of  the  old  man,  but  for  his  own  sake  as 
well.  Moreover,  he  hated  Carnahan  and  all  his 
works,  and,  impulsively,  against  his  better  judgment, 
he  had  organized  into  a  campaign  the  young  man's 
quickly  conceived  plan,  and  had  fallen  in  behind  him 
with  all  the  resources  of  his  veteran  experience  and 
his  almost  unlimited  credit.  He  was  not  doing  it  for 
nothing.  Bruning  did  not  do  things  for  nothing. 
But  the  returns  he  expected  to  extract,  in  case  of 
success,  were  not  the  real  occasion  of  his  interest.  It 
was  the  quixotic  strain  appearing  once  more. 

The  plan  had  been  simple  enough :  to  make  Carna- 
272 


OVER   THE    TELEPHONE 


han  pay.  Carnahan  had  control  of  the  L.  &  B. 
Carnahan  was  "  selling  short  "  quantities  of  Pacific 
and  Eastern.  Not  satisfied  with  crushing  the  Hol- 
worthys,  he  had  planned  to  make  the  market  pay  its 
tribute,  as  well,  when  the  stock  went  to  pieces.  It 
was  at  this  auxiliary  market  feature  of  his  coup  that 
Mathewson's  half-formed  plan  was  aimed.  If  they 
could  effectually  corner  the  outstanding  stock,  while 
Carnahan  was  unsuspectingly  selling;  if,  in  the  mo- 
ment of  his  victory,  they  could  turn  the  tables  on  him 
in  the  Street,  the  Pacific  and  Eastern  might  be  saved. 
Yes,  the  plan  was  simple  enough.  But  the  workings 
out  of  it,  even  although  it  was  a  comparatively  small, 
unimportant  stock,  were  a  different  matter.  To  do 
it  in  a  few  short  days ;  to  do  it  in  such  a  way  that  his 
keen  market  sense  did  not  scent  the  move ;  to  do  it  at 
all,  with  the  money  that  was  required;  these  things 
needed  all  of  Bruning's  skill  and  resource.  The 
frightened  selling,  the  day  before,  had  helped.  Car- 
nahan's  certainty  of  success  had  helped,  and  he  had 
had  every  reason  for  certainty.  Somehow  the  presi- 
dent of  the  L.  &  B.  had  blundered.  Somehow  his 
secretary,  Kelsey,  had  put  two  and  two  together. 
And  Kelsey  had  happened  to  be  a  friend  of  Mathew- 
son's, who  had  happened  to  become  Allen  Holworthy. 
Even  Carnahan  could  not  have  provided  against  such 
a  train  of  circumstance. 

273 


THE    YAEDSTICK   MAN 


Bruning  was  annoyed  that  young  Holworthy  was 
so  late  that  morning.  The  truth  of  the  matter  was 
that  Mathewson  had  taken  a  Madison  Avenue  surface 
car,  partly  because  of  its  proximity  to  the  hotel,  but 
largely  because  he  had  not  taken  that  route  since  he 
had  been  in  New  York,  and  he  was  curious  about  it. 
It  was  interminably  slow,  and  it  did  not  go  beyond 
City  Hall,  he  found  to  his  surprise.  Not  in  any  way 
troubled  by  this  additional  delay,  he  walked  with  long, 
loping  strides  down  crowded  Broadway.  It  was  his 
advent  to  Wall  Street.  He  was  whole-souledly  glad 
that  he  did  not  have  to  stay  away  any  longer,  waiting 
for  things  to  happen.  The  fight  was  on  now,  and  to 
a  finish.  He  faced  it  with  equanimity,  grinning  to 
himself  reminiscently,  as  he  remembered  how  he  had 
dodged  the  reporters  at  the  Plaza  that  morning. 

"  Well,  it  iss  about  time."  Bruning  looked  up 
sharply,  as  he  was  ushered  in. 

"  I  suppose  it  is,"  Mathewson  smiled  rather  sheep- 
ishly, and  proceeded  to  tell  Bruning,  in  his  slow, 
humorous  drawl,  the  story  of  how  he  had  evaded  the 
reporters,  and  of  his  tramp  downtown,  garnish- 
ing it  with  little  human  touches  which,  by  their  drol- 
lery, soon  had  the  stout  German  chuckling  with 
laughter. 

"  But  now,"  he  said  at  last,  trying  to  be  stern,  "  to 
business." 

274 


OVER   THE   TELEPHONE 


Mathewson  glanced  at  his  watch,  and  closed  the 
old-fashioned  case  with  a  snap.  He  was  ready. 

"  Right,"  he  said. 

Shortly  after  eleven  o'clock  the  telephone  message 
came  from  Carnahan's  office.  It  was  quicker  even 
than  Bruning  had  expected,  and  yet  it  was  character- 
istic. The  silent  little  financier  had  admitted  the 
inevitable,  and,  having  admitted  it,  he  acted  at  once. 
Shortly  afterward  the  great  man  himself  was  ushered 
down  the  narrow,  private  hallway  which  led  to  the 
room  where  they  were  waiting  for  him. 

Mathewson,  looking  up,  saw  a  short  man  with  nar- 
row, sloping  shoulders,  whose  face,  but  for  the  dome 
of  his  brow  and  the  beady  black  eyes  which  looked 
out  from  under  bristling  eyebrows,  was  essentially 
commonplace.  There  was  keenness  in  the  face  and 
shrewd,  hard  cleverness  about  the  set  of  the  mouth 
under  the  gray  mustaches,  and  that  was  all.  Was 
this  the  kind  of  a  hero  which  money  made? 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Bruning,"  said  the  crisp, 
harsh  voice,  utterly  devoid  of  feeling.  "  I  take  it, 
this  is  Mr.  Holworthy  ?  " 

Mathewson,  who  had  risen,  bowed. 

"  And  this  is  Mr.  Carnahan  ?  "  he  said,  surprised 
at  his  own  genial  tone.  His  enmity  had  fallen  away 
at  the  sight  of  the  man.  He  was  instinctively  sorry 
for  him ;  not  for  what  he  had  lost,  but  for  what  he 

275 


THE    YAEDSTICK 


had  gained,  what  the  long  years  had  written  into  his 
face. 

"  Well,"  said  Carnahan,  when  they  were  seated, 
coming  sharply  to  the  point,  "  I  suppose  you  want 
that  old  contract  renewed."  The  keen  black  eyes 
tried  to  bully  and  brow-beat  the  shrewd  brown  ones. 

"  I  want  rather  more  than  that,"  drawled  Mathew- 
son.  "  Mr.  Bruning  and  ourselves  have  decided  to 
obtain  the  control  of  the  L.  &  B.  You  have  it.  Mr. 
Bruning  will  go  over  the  details  with  you.  The 
proposition  he  will  make  is  a  perfectly  fair  one,  Mr. 
Carnahan.  You  will  accept  it,"  he  paused,  "  under 
the  circumstances." 

It  was  a  fair  proposition — too  fair,  Bruning 
thought — and  John  P.  Carnahan  did  accept  it,  with- 
out argument.  When  the  short  conference  was 
ended,  whereby  the  Pacific  and  Eastern  eventually 
had  its  own  connections  east,  and  whereby,  as  well, 
Otto  Bruning  became  a  rather  important  stockholder 
in  the  road,  John  P.  Carnahan  turned,  as  he  rose  to 
go,  with  a  brisk,  patronizing  air  to  the  younger  man, 
who  had  been  sitting,  listening  and  nodding  oc- 
casionally as  they  talked. 

"  I  congratulate  you,"  he  said.  "  You  have  had 
good  advisers." 

Allen  Holworthy  smiled,  an  odd,  dreamy  look  for  a 
moment  obliterating  the  shrewdness  in  his  eyes. 

276 


OVER    THE   TELEPHONE 


"  Yes,"  he  drawled  simply. 

As  he  wrote  his  triumphant  telegram,  that  last 
message  of  many,  it  seemed  to  him  almost  as  if  she 
were  hovering  over  his  shoulder,  and  it  did  not  seem 
in  any  way  strange,  when  the  telephone  bell  rang 
and  when,  taking  off  the  receiver,  he  heard  her 
voice. 

"  Is  this  Mr. — Mr.  Mathewson?  " 

"  Hello,  little  pardner."  His  voice  caressed  the 
words  lingeringly. 

"  I've  been  trying  to  get  you  all  the  morning."  He 
felt  the  trouble  in  her  voice.  "  I  wanted  to  tell  you 
something  I  think  you  ought  to  know.  I — I—  "  she 
faltered ;  "  somehow  I  don't  know  how  to  say  it." 

"  Try,"  he  said  encouragingly. 

"  It's  about  Mr.  Jones,"  the  trouble  in  her  voice 
increased,  "  and  that  other  man.  Was  it  Carna- 
han?" 

"  The  burglar?  "  he  laughed  in  the  'phone. 

"  Yes.  You  mustn't  laugh.  It's  serious.  They 
are  friends,  it  seems.  I  found  it  out  last  night." 

"  Friends  !  "  Mathewson  repeated  the  word,  the 
laughter  gone  out  of  his  voice. 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  the  girl's  voice  went  on 
desperately,  "  but  I  think  Mr.  Jones  is  against  you, 
too.  He  said  last  night  that  he  had  become  rich, 
and  it's  connected  somehow  with  your  railroad. 

277 


THE    YARDSTICK 


don't  understand  it,  but  I  thought  I  ought  to  tell 
you." 

Mathewson  delayed  over  this,  his  eyes  narrowed. 

"  Did  you  hear?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  pardner.  Forgive  me.  I  was  thinking. 
I've  some  news  for  you,  too." 

"  Yes,"  breathlessly. 

"  Good  news."  He  stopped  tantalizingly. 
"  We've  won."  He  said  it  in  a  suppressed  boyish 
whisper. 

"And— and  Daddy?" 

Bless  her  heart !     How  unerringly  she  understood. 

"  Holding  his  own." 

"Oh."  The  little  sigh  of  relief  thrilled  him. 
"And  you?" 

"  I  ?  I  told  you  about  myself  last  night.  Shall  I 
tell  you  again  ?  "  boldly. 

"  Oh,  no.  Please.  Good-by."  Pie  almost  heard 
the  startled  intake  of  breath.  He  could  almost  see 
the  shy,  troubled  eyes. 

"  Good-by,  little  pardner,"  he  whispered  to  the 
blank  wire. 

Smilingly  he  gazed  out  through  the  wide  windows. 
Then  slowly  the  smile  faded.  Jones  !  Was  it  possi- 
ble that  Jones — ?  He  glanced  at  his  watch.  It 
was  almost  half  past  twelve. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
THE   ONLY  WAY  OUT 

JONES  turned  the  key  in  the  front  door,  and  held 
the  door  open  for  Sheldon  to  enter.     It  clanged 
shut  behind  them  with  a  blank,  echoing  noise. 

Everything  was  empty,  and  this  cavernous  house 
with  all  its  trappings,  in  which  he  had  taken  so  much 
pride,  was  emptier  than  all.  A  feeling  of  repulsion 
came  upon  him,  a  feeling  that  was  almost  nausea. 
Nevertheless  he  tramped  doggedly  down  the  long  hall- 
way, unconsciously  grateful  for  the  thick  layer  of 
rugs,  which  kept  that  hollow  echo  from  mocking  at 
him.  For  an  hour  he  had  been  the  prey  of  circum- 
stance. In  the  absence  of  any  determined  will,  he 
had  drifted  with  the  tide,  a  hopeless  derelict. 

Just  as  he  had  drifted  back  to  the  office,  so  now, 
at  Sheldon's  suggestion,  he  had  drifted  homeward. 
He  had  clung  to  Sheldon  desperately.  Anything  was 
better  than  being  left  alone ;  alone  with  all  the  realiza- 
tion of  ruin ;  alone  with  that  cold,  chilling  steel,  which 
he  felt,  like  some  icy  hand,  gripping  at  his  side. 
Slowly  he  plodded  up  the  stairs,  unconscious  of  his 
own  weariness. 

279 


THE    YAEDSTICK 


Sheldon  followed  him  into  the  library  and,  flinging 
himself  into  the  first  chair  he  reached,  he  bit  off  the 
end  of  a  cigar  and  spat  it  from  him  upon  the  rug. 
Life  had  become  crude.  There  was  neither  time  nor 
thought  for  little  amenities.  Shortly  the  half-burned 
match  followed,  and  Sheldon,  heedless  of  either  one, 
frowned  grimly  into  the  puffs  of  smoke  which  he  did 
not  see. 

Across  at  the  windows  the  curtains  bellied  in  with 
the  breeze.  Jones  felt  the  chill  air  and  shivered. 
The  familiar  irritation  came  back  to  him,  and  for 
a  second,  habit  overcame  even  the  chaos  which  was 
all  about  him. 

"  Cold,"  he  snarled.  "  Who  opened  those  windows  ? 
I  can't  be  comfortable  in  my  own  house." 

He  had  stamped  across  the  room  as  he  spoke,  but 
he  hesitated  now,  with  one  hand  upon  the  window 
frame.  From  far  down  the  street  came  hoarse 
shouts,  repeated  again  and  again  in  dinning  mono- 
tone. 

"Extra!     Extra!" 

Jones's  shoulders  slumped,  and  his  eyes  stared 
vacantly  out  at  the  sunshine. 

"  My  own  house !  "  he  mumbled.  "  What  differ- 
ence does  it  make  ? "  The  broken  whisper  was 
scarcely  audible.  "  What  difference  does  anything 
make  now?  " 

280 


THE    ONLY    WAY    OUT 


He  leaned  back  heavily  against  the  wall.  The 
reiterating  shout  was  coming  nearer  with  its  relentless 
refrain.  A  flash  of  his  old  anger,  defiant,  impotent, 
stirred  Jones. 

"  Listen  to  those  brats  out  on  the  street,"  he 
growled,  his  hands  clenched.  "  They're  shouting  our 
souls  away.  Everybody'll  know,"  he  whispered,  half 
to  himself.  "  Jones  a  failure.  No,  no ! "  He 
pulled  himself  up  straight  and  glared  at  the  uncon- 
scious Sheldon,  who  sat,  unheeding,  frowning  into  his 
cigar  smoke.  Swiftly  all  Jones's  awakened  wrath 
concentrated  upon  the  silent,  glowering  man.  Mo- 
mentarily he  was  stark  mad  with  the  memory  of  what 
might  have  been. 

"  Sheldon,  curse  you !  "  he  raved,  hoarsely.  "  Why 
didn't  you  let  me  clean  up  yesterday?  I  wanted  to. 
We'd  have  been  rich!  Rich!  My  God!  And  you 
spoiled  it." 

He  swept  down  upon  his  partner,  his  clenched 
fists  shaking  threateningly.  Then  Sheldon's  big, 
square  shoulders  towered  up  above  him.  There 
was  brute  force  in  their  movement,  and  brute  force, 
too,  in  the  hard,  contemptuous  look  of  Sheldon's 
eyes. 

There  was  a  second's  tense  pause,  a  primitive,  bar- 
baric clash,  upon  which  the  burlapped,  be-pictured 
walls   looked  strangely   down.     Then   Jones's   arras 
19  281 


THE    YARDSTICK    MAN 


dropped  limply,  and  he  tottered,  his  crazy  impulse 
past.  Sheldon's  shoulders  loosened  from  their 
braced-back  stiffness. 

"  Oh,  cut  it  out,  Jones,"  he  said  roughly.  "  May- 
be I  did  make  a  mistake.  You  agreed  to  it.  And 
I'm  not  saying  anything  about  who  got  us  into  the 
thing  in  the  beginning,  am  I  ?  "  He  half  turned 
away.  "What's  the  use?"  he  added.  "We're 
done,  that's  all ;  done  good  and  brown."  As  if  sick 
of  it  all,  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  started  for  the 
door. 

Fear  leaped  into  Jones's  white  face,  and  into  his 
voice. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  Sheldon?  "  he  gasped. 

"  I'm  going  over  to  the  house.  Over  to  see  my 
kid."  Sheldon  turned  on  the  threshold.  His  voice 
broke.  "  My  little  kid."  He  paused  a  second 
longer.  "  Well,  so  long,  Jones,"  he  said  sharply. 

"  But — Sheldon — "  Jones  was  begging  now,  beg- 
ging desperately. 

"  I'll  be  back  later,"  Sheldon  went  on.  "  When 
you're  reasonable  again.  Be  a  sport,  Jones.  It's  all 
in  the  game.  So  long." 

Jones  saw  his  big  frame  disappear  through  the 
doorway,  and  listened  to  the  crunch  of  his  step  on  the 
stairs.  He  wanted  to  cry  out,  to  beg  Sheldon  to  stay 
with  him,  but  he  did  not.  His  will  was  gone.  He 

282 


THE    OXLY   WAY    OUT 


was  drifting  with  the  tide.     The  door  slammed  below, 
and  startled  him  again  with  its  echoing  noise. 

He  was  alone.  No,  not  alone.  From  outside  now, 
almost  under  his  windows,  came  the  shouts  of  the 
newsboys. 

"Extra!     Extra!" 

With  sudden,  crazy  cunning  Jones  stumbled  across, 
and  closed  the  windows  down ;  softly — very  softly. 
Nobody  must  know.  He  would  fool  them.  Yes,  he 
was  clever  yet.  He  grinned  to  himself,  as  he  went 
tiptoeing  back  into  the  room,  listening,  listening. 

Slowly  his  face  was  distorted  with  agony.  He 
cowered  against  the  fireplace.  Over  there,  near  the 
door,  he  could  hear  them  yet.  No,  there  was  no 
escape;  no  escape.  The  world  was  beating  in  upon 
him  with  its  clamor  of  voices,  its  shaking  fingers  of 
scorn.  He  was  a  failure. 

His  ears  were  listening  now;  listening  for  some- 
thing else,  acutely.  Were  there  no  reinforcements? 
Was  there  no  one  who  would  stand  by  him?  He 
stumbled  to  the  doorway.  No,  there  was  no  sound 
in  the  big,  empty  house.  He  was  alone.  The  tor- 
turing cries  from  outside  beat  in  upon  him  once  more, 
muffled  but  insistent.  With  a  quick,  despairing  im- 
pulse he  closed  the  door  to,  behind  him ;  softly,  very 
softly.  No  one  should  know.  His  hand,  trembling, 
closed  about  that  awful  thing  in  his  pocket.  The 

283 


THE    YAEDSTICK    MAN 


touch  of  the  cold  steel  stirred  him  shiveringly  to  tem- 
porary resistance. 

"  No,"  he  whispered  to  himself,  gritting  his  teeth. 
"  No,  I'll  fight." 

It  was  only  for  a  moment,  however.  He  felt  that 
heavy  weight  of  the  morning  crushing  down  within 
him.  The  horror  returned,  the  only  alternative  be- 
tween which  and  that  cold,  cruel  thing  in  his  pocket 
he  wavered,  shakingly.  The  voices  began  again. 
From  over  there  by  the  window  they  seemed  to  come ; 
sneering,  jeering,  scornful  voices;  carping,  bickering, 
bitter  voices ;  chuckling,  fiendish  laughter.  A  thou- 
sand fingers  were  pointing  at  him.  The  goblins  were 
closing  in  upon  their  own. 

Dizzy,  panic-stricken,  he  staggered  forward  heavily 
and,  dropping  into  a  chair  beside  the  table,  he  bowed 
his  tortured  head  in  his  hands.  Somehow  the  posi- 
tion reminded  him,  belatedly,  of  another  resource, 
that  Resource  which  he  had  served  conventionally 
once  a  week.  Desperately  he  raised  his  head,  and  his 
lips  tried  to  form  a  prayer.  His  blurred  mind  could 
not  remember  the  customary  phrases.  He  let  his  sick 
soul  make  its  own  entreaty. 

"  Oh,  God,"  he  mumbled.  "  I've  meant  to  be  de- 
cent. I've  meant  to  be  straight.  Let  me  by,  just  this 
once,  God,  just  this  once.  I'll  promise  anything; 
anything." 

284 


THE    ONLY    WAY   OUT 


He  repeated  the  word;  then  waited  dumbly. 
Slowly  his  hope  vanished.  There  was  no  answering 
relief.  He  shook  his  head,  and  his  lowering  glance 
fell  upon  the  flowers,  blooming  gayly  in  the  blue  bowl. 
He  caught  their  scent.  Slowly  the  clouds  which 
hung  upon  his  brain  cleared  away.  Mathewson1, 
The  prophetic  words  came  back  to  him.  "  Yard- 
stick man;  whirlwind  of  chance;  naked  before  God 
and  man."  Mathewson !  The  shadow  of  the  man 
seemed  to  pursue  his  very  thoughts,  now  at  the  end  of 
things.  It  seemed  to  loom  over  him,  to  obliterate 
him.  He  turned  upon  it  with  a  muttered  oath,  and, 
springing  up,  he  seized  the  blue  bowl  and  dashed  it, 
with  all  his  remaining  strength,  upon  the  floor. 

The  crash  startled  him.  He  stood  staring  for 
nearly  a  minute  at  the  wreck.  Slowly  there  came  to 
him  the  bitter  knowledge  of  his  real  loneliness,  the 
slow  comprehension  that  this  was  his  hopeless  loss, 
the  only  loss  that  mattered. 

"  Dorothy ! "  he  shouted  frantically  at  the  top  of 
his  voice.  "  Dorothy !  " 

There  was  no  answer  except  the  echoes  which  came 
back  to  jeer  him.  He  became  suddenly  calm.  The 
wavering  was  past.  He  had  decided.  He  glanced 
about  the  familiar  room.  In  the  alcove  he  would  be 
hidden  from  the  door.  He  braced  his  shoulders  back 
with  pitiful  precision,  and  marched  across  to  it. 

285 


THE    YAEDSTICK    MAN 


Deliberately  he  took  the  pawn-shop  revolver  from  his 
pocket,  and  as  deliberately  loaded  it.  He  was  con- 
scious of  no  feeling  now,  except  a  numb  rej  oicing  that 
it  was  almost  over.  He  sighed  and  looked  about  him. 
His  glance  fell  upon  the  little  vase  of  flowers  upon 
the  plate-rail.  Instantly  he  faced  about,  away  from 
it,  and  lifted  slowly,  quite  steadily,  the  hand  that  held 
that  shining  thing  of  steel  which  he  had  dreaded,  but 
which  had  become  the  easiest  way. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

READJUSTMENTS 

MRS.  JONES  had  had  a  bad  morning.  In  the 
first  place,  Mabel  had  gone  home.  The  girl 
was  sick;  there  was  no  question  about  that,  what 
with  her  pale  face  and  the  dark  circles  under  her 
eyes.  What  had  made  Mrs.  Jones  surest  of  all  was, 
that  the  girl  would  not  eat  nor  talk.  And  she  had 
looked  at  Mrs.  Jones  with  such  a  wistful  appeal  in 
her  eyes,  when  she  had  asked  if  she  could  go  home  for 
the  day,  that  the  older  woman  had  been  greatly  con- 
cerned. 

Thought  of  the  girl  would  have  troubled  her  all 
the  morning,  if  there  had  not  been  so  many  other 
things.  There  was  the  new  laundress,  for  instance, 
as  stupid  as  all  the  rest.  She  was  absolutely  sure 
that  the  new  girl  was  going  to  make  a  lot  of  trouble. 
There  was  something  about  the  way  the  other  girls 
looked  at  her.  Mrs.  Jones  was  an  adept  at  discover- 
ing promised  difficulties,  weeks  ahead.  Perhaps  her 
knowledge  was  real  insight,  and  perhaps  it  furthered 
what  it  foresaw.  At  any  rate  the  difficulties  usually 
occurred. 

287 


THE    YAEDSTICK   MAN 


The  trying  machinery  of  the  household,  however, 
was  a  small  part  of  the  unsatisfied  restlessness  of  the 
morning.  There  was  something  wrong,  something 
she  did  not  understand.  She  had  been  sure  of  it  last 
night,  but  instinct  and  pride  and  the  presence  of 
Professor  Trowbridge,  all  together,  had  kept  her 
from  trying  to  find  out  what  it  was.  It  was  not  a 
mere  coincidence  that  Mabel  had  been  sick  that  morn- 
ing, or  that  she  had  had  a  headache  the  night  before. 
There  had  been  something  odd  about  the  way  Mr. 
Wright  had  acted,  also. 

Then  there  was  Roger.  Why  had  he  gone?  She 
could  understand,  perhaps,  why  he  might  think  going 
was  best.  She  flushed  with  inward  shame  at  the 
thought.  But  to  go  without  telling  her  he  was  going, 
without  a  word  of  good-by ;  that  was  more  than  she 
had  deserved.  Did  he  have  as  little  faith  in  her  as 
that?  Didn't  he  believe  she  had  meant  what  she 
said?  Didn't  he  know  she  was  a  different  woman 
now,  from  that  overwrought,  nervous  person  who  had 
half  thrown  herself  at  him  yesterday  afternoon,  in  a 
mad  desperation  which  she  herself,  looking  back  at  it 
now,  could  scarcely  understand?  Men  were  so  dull. 
They  took  people's  moods  so  seriously,  she  told  her- 
self, in  a  vain  effort  to  justify  what  she  had  done. 
And  he  had  seemed  to  understand,  too.  Her 
grievance  increased.  It  was  really  against  herself, 

288 


READJUSTMENTS 


but  she  turned  it  perversely  against  him,  now  that  he 
had  given  her  what  seemed  an  opportunity  to  do  so. 
If  he  only  had  not  come,  she  thought.  She  had  been 
almost  ashamed  to  look  Edward  in  the  face  the  night 
before.  She  had  slept  scarcely  a  wink  all  night. 
She  had  felt  unutterably  guilty  and  chagrined,  and 
had  wept  bitterly  in  the  hours  of  reaction.  Edward 
always  had  meant  to  be  good  to  her.  They  had  been 
wonderfully  happy  at  first.  Now,  in  this  last  swing 
of  the  pendulum  of  her  emotions,  she  looked  back, 
with  tearful  tenderness,  to  those  first  days  of  her  en- 
gagement and  marriage.  Perhaps  it  was  not  all  Ins 
fault  that  she  had  drifted  away  from  him.  Perhaps 
she — well,  she  was  going  to  change  all  that.  She  had 
had  her  lesson.  The  future  should  be  better. 

Of  course  she  would  tell  him  all  about  it.  She  had 
decided  that,  in  the  weary  hours  of  the  night.  She 
would  be  miserable  until  she  had  told  him,  utterly 
miserable.  He  would  take  it  hard,  she  knew  that. 
He  was  very  up  and  down,  when  it  came  to  matters  of 
right  and  wrong;  and  her  heart  had  failed  her,  every 
time  she  had  seriously  pictured  the  scene,  which 
would  come  when  she  told  him.  It  was  the  choice  of 
two  evils,  however,  and  she  couldn't  stand  the  remorse 
which  ached  at  her  heart.  No,  she  would  tell  him. 
She  had  meant  to,  that  very  morning.  If  he  hadn't 
hurried  off,  she  would  have  told  him. 

289 


THE    YARDSTICK    MAN 


That  was  another  thing.  He  had  been  so  strange 
that  morning.  She  had  heard  him  hurry  down  to  the 
telephone,  and  she  had  hurried,  also,  so  as  to  see  him 
before  he  went.  As  it  was  she  had  barely  caught  him. 
He  hadn't  kissed  her  good-by,  even  perfunctorily,  and 
she  had  seen  that  look  on  his  face.  She  never  had 
seen  him  look  so  before.  She  had  been  compas- 
sionately sorry  for  him,  and  that  was  unusual.  He 
never  had  drawn  on  her  compassion.  Perhaps  it 
was  her  own  guilt  which  had  made  her  feel  it  so 
much. 

She  shook  her  head  wearily  as  she  went  upstairs. 
Something  was  wrong.  She  wondered  dully,  whether 
anything  would  ever  be  right  again.  She  tried  to 
crowd  it  all  out  of  her  mind  by  working  over  the  lists 
for  her  tea,  but  somehow,  she  had  no  heart  for  teas 
that  morning.  Half  a  dozen  times  she  rose  restlessly 
and  paced  up  and  down  the  room,  but  always  she 
forced  herself  back  to  the  work  again,  chastened,  self- 
accusing,  foreboding.  And  so  the  minutes  ticked 
away,  and  the  hours,  until  the  morning  was  over. 

She  leaned  back  in  her  chair  at  last,  and  glanced 
down  at  her  watch.  It  was  nearly  lunch  time.  She 
had  worked  the  entire  morning.  Somehow  the 
thought  rested  her  conscience,  and  she  closed  her 
eyes  drowsily.  She  had  not  realized  before  how 
sleepy  she  was. 

290 


READJUSTMENTS 


All  at  once  she  started  up.  From  the  front  of  the 
house  below,  she  had  heard  a  heavy  thud.  Almost 
immediately  a  muffled  shout  followed,  a  man's  shout. 
It  startled  her,  frightened  her ;  she  did  not  know  why. 
She  dashed  out  of  her  room  and  down  the  long  stairs, 
urged  on  by  a  frightened  premonition.  The  library 
door  was  closed.  She  turned  the  knob  and  flung  into 
the  room,  peering  fearfully  about  her.  Nobody  was 
there.  But  somebody  must  be  there.  The  sounds — 
She  started  to  cross  to  the  windows.  Suddenly  she 
stopped,  her  eyes  dilated,  her  body  shrunk  backward, 
and  she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  as  if  to  close 
out  the  sight  of  what  was  before  her. 

"  Edward !  "  she  moaned ;  "  Edward !  "  Again  and 
again  she  repeated  the  name,  her  mind  numb  with  hor- 
ror. She  crouched  back,  nerveless,  limp,  as  if  ready 
to  topple  at  the  expected  sound. 

It  did  not  come,  however.  The  revolver  slipped 
from  Jones's  relaxing  hand  and  fell  clattering  to  the 
floor,  as  he  swayed  drunkenly  against  the  alcove  desk. 

"  Dorothy !  "  he  whispered,  dry-lipped. 

She  tore  her  hands  from  her  anguished  face.    Glad 
tears  rushed  down  her  cheeks,  as  she  groped  her  way 
toward  him  through  the  mist  of  poignant  joy. 
now  her  lips  could  phrase  only  one  word,  but  there 
was  a  difference  in  her  choking  voice. 

"  Edward !     Edward !  "     Her  hand  caught  at  hi» 
291 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


shoulder,  and  she  clung  to  him  with  hysterical  tears 
and  laughter.  "  I  knew  there  was  something  wrong," 
she  sobbed,  over  and  over  again.  "  I  felt  it ;  but  oh, 
not  this,  not  this !  " 

He  stared  blankly  over  her  shoulder.  Why  had 
his  hand  faltered?  Why  had  he  failed  to  complete 
it,  the  only  way  out?  Strangely,  her  hand  on  his 
shoulder,  her  trembling  body  close  to  his,  seemed  to 
steady  him.  He  was  no  longer  alone.  He  was 
humbly  thankful  for  that. 

"  Dorothy,"  he  said  huskily,  "  you  don't  under- 
stand. I'm  ruined,  bankrupt."  The  horror  came 
back  to  him,  and  with  it  those  words  which  had 
hounded  him,  along  with  the  man  who  had  said  them. 
"  '  Naked  before  God  and  man.'  " 

"Bankrupt?     What  do  you  mean,  Edward?" 

"  Everything  is  gone,"  he  said,  dully.  It  was  hard 
to  tell  her.  He  gripped  her  arms  harshly  to  steady 
himself.  He  was  strangely  cool,  however.  Her 
arms  were  there.  "  Every  cent  and  more.  I  don't 
know  how  much  more.  I  blundered,"  he  added, 
slowly  comprehending  at  last.  "  It  was  my  fault. 
It's  all  gone,"  he  added  hopelessly. 

Her  other  hand  slipped  up  to  his  neck. 

"  Let  it  go,"  she  cried.  "  Did  you  think  I'd  care 
for  that  ?  Why,  somehow  I'm  glad,  glad." 

"  Glad !  "     He  frowned,  blankly. 
292 


EEADJUSTMEXTS 


"  Yes.  We  can  make  a  new  start,  you  and  I  to- 
gether, Edward." 

He  gazed  down  at  the  tearful  face,  incredulous  but 
with  a  new  eagerness. 

"  You  —  you'll  stick  to  me?  "  he  whispered,  fear- 
fully. 

"  Edward  !  "  she  cried.     "  You  do  care  !  " 

With  her  words,  and  with  her  arms  clinging  tightly 
about  his  neck,  something  of  the  horror  faded  away. 
He  felt  himself  more  of  a  man,  less  of  the  battered 
plaything  of  fate. 

"  I'll  pull  through,  somehow,"  he  said,  "  if  you'll 
only  stick  to  me." 

"  Oh,  Edward  !  "  She  buried  her  head  upon  his 
breast,  and  his  arms  tightened  about  her,  tightened 
as  if  he  feared  she  would  again  slip  away  from  him. 
For  a  moment  they  were  silent,  expectant  but  fear- 
ful, treading  on  tiptoe  the  edges  of  a  new-found 


At  last  she  drew  back  gently,  with  impulsive  ques- 
tioning. 

"  You  won't  make  me  go  to  dinners  and  things 
alone,  after  this  ?  "  she  begged. 

"  There  aren't  going  to  be  any  more  dinners,"  he 
said,  glumly. 

"But  you  won't?"  she  persisted,  her  wet  eyes 
pleading  with  him. 

293 


THE    YARDSTICK    MAX 


"  Why,  no,  Dorothy."  This  thing  which  ordi- 
narily would  have  seemed  trifling  was  very  serious  to 
him  now.  "  Not  if  you " 

"  And  you'll  love  me,"  she  broke  in,  satisfied,  "  a 
little?" 

"  I  have  always  loved  you,  my  dear,"  he  said,  but 
her  question  troubled  him,  humbled  him. 

"  Have  you,  Edward? "  she  asked  eagerly. 
"  Somehow  I  wasn't  sure.  But  you'll  tell  me  about 
it — once  in  a  while.  I — I'd  like  to  be  reminded. 
After  all,  love  is  pretty  important,  too." 

"  Yes,  Dorothy,"  he  said  very  humbly. 

"  And  this  time  you'll  let  me  help,  won't  you,  Ed- 
ward? "  she  urged  herself  on.  It  was  to  be  a  new 
start.  "  You'll  let  me  do  something?  " 

He  nodded  gravely.     Then  he  hesitated. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  my  dear  ?  What  can  you 
do?" 

He  meant  it  kindly  enough,  but  she  took  it  as  a  bit 
of  their  old  misunderstanding. 

"That's  just  it,"  she  retorted,  quickly.  "You 
think  I  can't  do  anything,  not  even  run  the  house. 
Oh,  I'm  sick  of  being  like  a  wall  that  you  can  hang 
pretty  wall  paper. on,  so  that  you  can  feel  proud  and 
comfortable  when  you  look  at  it.  I  want  to  be  of 
some  use,  and  I  want  you  to  think  I  am.  I " 

His  hand  on  her  arm  stopped  her.  Perhaps  he 
294 


READJUSTMENTS 


partly  understood.     Perhaps  he  could  not  bear  the 
old  jarring  sharpness  of  her  voice. 
"  I  guess  I've  been  very  wrong." 
The  humility  in  his  tone  made  her  instantly  blame 
herself. 

"  No,  you  haven't,"  she  cried.  "  I  have.  I  know 
I'm  selfish.  I  didn't  mean  to  be  unkind.  I  ought  to 
be  helping  you  and  I'm  doing  just  the  opposite. 
Edward — "  Her  self-criticism  led  her  on  now.  She 
half  impelled  him,  half  led  him  to  the  big  armchair 
beside  the  desk.  "  Sit  down,  dear.  There's  something 
I  must  tell  you."  She  faltered,  and  leaned  against 
the  desk,  her  hands  gripping  its  edge,  half  turned 
away  from  him.  "  We're  starting  new  again."  Still 
she  hesitated.  "  I've  been  very  wicked.  I  don't  know 
what  you'll  think  of  me." 

Jones  had  leaned  back  in  the  chair  and  closed  his 
eyes. 

"  You  needn't  tell  me,"  he  said,  dully.  "  It's  about 
Mathewson.  I  know  all  about  it.  It's  all  right." 

His  own  words  surprised  him,  and  his  feeling  as 
well.  Somehow  the  big  chair  seemed  like  a  haven,  now 
that  she  was  beside  him,  a  calm  haven  after  the  storm. 
Everything  else  might  be  gone,  but  he  had  a  home.  A 
home !  And  perhaps— yes— that  was  the  best  of  all. 
His  surprise  at  his  words,  however,  was  nothing 

compared  to  hers. 

295 


THE   YAEDSTICK   MAN 


"  He  told  you !  "  she  cried,  facing  him. 

lie  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  at  her. 

"  Huh !  Scarcely,"  he  said,  more  gruffly.  It  was 
Mathewson  again.  "  I  told  him.  I  turned  him  out. 
He  won't  bother  you  again." 

"  You  turned  him  out  ?  "  she  repeated.  "  He  never 
bothered  me."  Then,  seeing  the  question  in  his  eyes, 
she  turned  away  again,  her  eyes  averted.  "  You 
ought  to  have  turned  me  out,"  she  said  bitterly. 
"  Listen,  Edward."  She  paused,  however,  before  she 
went  on  in  a  voice  that  was  lowered  so  that  it  was 
scarcely  audible.  "  I  was  unhappy,  desperate.  I 
thought  you  didn't  care  any  more.  I  wanted  to  live. 
I — I  told  him  so.  Truly,  Edward — truly,  do  you 
hear — I  didn't  mean  anything  wrong,  but — I  told 
him." 

"  Yes." 

There  was  another  pause. 

"  He  saved  me." 

Doubt,  then  wonder  came  upon  his  face.  He 
leaned  forward,  clutching  the  chair  arms. 

"  What !  "  he  said  under  his  breath. 

"  Yes,"  she  forced  herself  on.  "  He  brought  me  to 
my  senses.  He  made  me  ashamed.  He  showed  me 
that  I  really  loved  you  all  the  time.  And  I  did,  Ed- 
ward." The  strain  was  too  much  for  her.  His  judg- 
ing silence  was  too  hard  to  bear.  She  buried  her  face 

296 


KEADJUSTMENTS 


in  her  hands  and  wept  convulsively.    "  I  do,  Edward ! 
Oh,  I  do !  "  she  sobbed. 

He  scarcely  heard  her,  however.  He  was  staring 
straight  before  him,  a  new  chastening  humility  work- 
ing in  his  soul. 

"  Is  that  true?  "  he  asked,  more  of  himself  than  of 
her.  Then  he  nodded  slowly,  and  looked  down. 
"  What  a  mess  we've  made  of  it  all,"  he  groaned. 
"  And — yes — it's  all  been  my  fault."  He  spoke  the 
words  slowly,  hammering  their  meaning  home  to  him- 
self. 

"  Oh,  no,  Edward,"  she  cried  out  of  her  sobs. 
"  '  Miserable  little  yardstick  man,'  "  he  repeated  in 
the  same  slow,  monotonous  way.     "  That's  what  he 
called  me." 

She  swung  about,  zealous  to  defend  him. 
"  Roger?    It's  not  true.    He  had  no  right- 
She  stopped,  for  she  had  heard  a  step  outside. 
With  a  swift  impulse,  she  leaned  down  and  picked  up 
the  tell-tale  revolver,  and,  hiding  it  behind  her,  she 
peered  out  into  the  library. 

"  Very  well,  Higgins,"  she  said  intuitively,  before 
the  butler  could  speak,  "we'll  be  down  in  a  few 
minutes.  You  may  pick  up  that  mess  on  the  floor 
before  you  go."  She  noticed  the  ruins  of  the  blue 
bowl  for  the  first  time.  "  And  then,  Higgins,"  she 
added,  "  you  may  close  the  door." 
20  297 


THE    YARDSTICK    MAX 


She  waited  until  he  had  bowed  himself  out  and  until 
the  door  had  swung  to,  softly,  behind  him.  Then  she 
turned  proudly  for  approval,  holding  the  revolver 
awkwardly,  fearfully  away  from  her. 

"  There !  "  she  said. 

Jones  had  watched  her,  his  expression  unchanged. 
Now,  actuated  by  a  new  resolve,  he  pulled  himself  to 
lus  feet. 

"  I'll  take  that,"  he  said,  his  hand  reaching  for  the 
revolver.  He  did  not  see  the  terror  rush  again  into 
her  face. 

"  No,"  she  cried,  backing  away  from  him.  "  You 
shan't  touch  it."  She  felt  his  stronger  hand  close 
over  hers,  but  she  hung  on  desperately. 

"  Don't  worry,"  he  said,  in  that  same  dull  voice. 
"  I  want  to  live  now ;  long  enough  to  square  things ; 
long  enough  to  do  my  duty ;  long  enough,"  he  hesi- 
tated and  looked  down  at  her,  "  to  make  you  happy — 
if  I  can." 

With  a  gasp  of  relief  and  joy  she  threw  herself 
upon  him. 

"  I'm  happy  now,  Edward,"  she  sobbed  against 
his  coat,  "  if  you'll  only  forgive  me.  I'm  happy 
now." 

He  said  nothing.  He  gazed  blankly  over  her 
shoulder,  his  face  set,  facing  all  the  humiliationVhich 
was  to  come  to  him,  his  pride  humbled.  His  arms 

298 


READJUSTMENTS 


were  gripped  closely  about  her,  however,  clinging  to 
her.     Perhaps,  in  his  way,  he  was  happy,  too. 

After  a  moment  he  thrust  her  away  from  him 
gently. 

"  I've  got  to  begin  now,"  he  said. 

Through  her  tears,  she  watched  him  fling  the  re- 
volver into  the  drawer  of  the  desk. 

"  Can  I  help?  "  she  asked. 

"  No,"  he  said  shortly,  and,  without  looking  at 
her,  he  plodded  out  into  the  library.  She  listened 
anxiously.  She  heard  the  click  of  the  telephone  re- 
ceiver, and  then  his  voice.  At  once  she  tiptoed  to 
the  desk,  locked  the  drawer,  and  slipped  the  key  in  her 
bosom. 

"That  you,  Sheldon?"  she  heard  him  say. 
"  Jones.  I—"  he  hesitated  palpably—"  I  want  to 
beg  your  pardon."  She  knew  what  the  words  cost 
him,  even  although  she  did  not  know  what  they  were 
about,  and,  in  the  pause  that  followed,  she  whimpered 
softly  to  herself,  proud  of  him,  sorry  for  him,  loving 
him.  "  No,  I  wasn't  quite  myself."  There  was  an- 
other pause.  "All  right."  There  followed  the 
click  again,  a  deep-drawn  sigh,  and  then  silence. 

After  a  moment  the  silence  frightened  her,  and  she 
hurried,  in  a  new  panic,  out  into  the  room. 

"  Edward !  "  she  called.  Then,  with  relief:  "  Ed- 
ward, what  are  you  doing?  " 

299 


THE    YAEDSTICK    MAN 


He  was  half  kneeling  on  the  window  seat,  peering 
out  of  the  window  and  up. 

"  Nothing,"  he  said,  turning  his  head  slowly,  "  just 
looking  at  the  sky,  that's  all,  my  dear." 

"  You  gave  me  such  a  start,"  she  said,  beside  him 
now.  "  I  thought  you  had  jumped  out  of  the  win- 
dow, or  something  terrible.  It  was  foolish." 

His  arm  went  about  her,  but  he  looked  away. 

"  I'd  be  too  big  a  coward,"  he  said  bitterly,  "  even 
if  I  wanted  to."  He  paused.  "  I  wonder  where 
Mathewson  is  ?  "  he  said. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  declared,  in  sudden  defense. 

Strangely  he  understood  her. 

"  No,"  he  said,  his  arm  tightening.  "  I  didn't 
think  you  did,  dear."  Then  he  added  gruffly :  "  We'd 
better  have  lunch.  Sheldon  is  coming  over  here  soon. 
I  have  a  lot  to  do  this  afternoon." 

Ordinarily  his  gruffness  would  have  brought  a  re- 
tort from  her,  but  not  now.  Perhaps  she,  too,  under- 
stood. 

"  Very  well,"  she  said. 

Half  way  across  the  room  Jones  stopped. 

"  You  understand,  Dorothy,"  he  said,  "  we  shall  be 
poor,  very  poor." 

She  turned  back  and  faced  him,  the  easy  tears  in 
her  eyes  at  the  sound  of  suffering  in  his  voice. 

"  Yes,  dear."  Then,  forcing  a  light  gayety,  she 
300 


READJUSTMENTS 


added :  "  We'll  live  in  a  little  flat,  with  no  servants  to 
bother  us,  nothing  but  a  gas  stove  and  a  vacuum 
cleaner."  She  laughed  aloud.  "  And  I'll  learn  how 
to  cook  again,  and 

"  You're  very  brave,  Dorothy,"  he  broke  in,  shak- 
ing his  head.  "  Braver  than  I  am." 

"  I'm  not  brave  a  bit,"  she  retorted.  "  It  doesn't 
take  bravery  to  be  poor,  if  you're  happy." 

He  looked  at  her  for  some  seconds  silently. 

"  You  shall  be  happy,"  he  said,  with  grim  decision. 

As  he  spoke  the  door  opened,  and  Professor  Trow- 
bridge,  his  thin  lips  angrily  closed,  his  brows  knit, 
stalked  in.  In  his  absorbed  pre-occupation  he  had 
forgotten  the  tall  hat  still  perched  upon  his  head,  and 
the  light  overcoat  still  on  his  back.  Two  or  three 
steps  within  the  room,  however,  he  remembered.  He 
swept  off  his  hat  with  an  irate  gesture,  and,  tramping 
across  to  the  table,  he  deposited  it  there  silently. 
Then,  turning,  he  said  in  an  icy  voice : 

"  I — I  beg  your  pardon,  it  is  scarcely  my  habit 
to—  But  I  am  not  myself.  I  scarcely  know  what  I 
am  doing.  I  am  so  enraged." 

"Why,  what's  the  matter?"  asked  Mrs.  Jones, 
feeling,  as  usual,  that  all  complaints  must  be  aimed  at 
her. 

The  professor,  however,  was  looking  at  Jones. 

«  It  is— it  is  Botts,"  he  said  severely.  "  This  Wall 
301 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


Street  affair.  He  cannot  give  me  the  forty  thousand 
dollars."  The  last  words  were  spoken  with  sup- 
pressed indignation. 

Jones  comprehended. 

"  Botts,  too?  "  he  ejaculated.  There  was  a  trace 
of  human  satisfaction  in  his  voice.  After  all  he  was 
not  the  only  one.  He  was  not  alone 

"Too?"  repeated  Trowbridge.  "Too?  You 
cannot  mean  that — — " 

"  Yes,  professor.  I'm  sorry,  but  I  haven't  a  cent 
left  for  Credmore."  Jones  looked  down,  humiliated. 
He,  with  his  fresh  trusteeship,  to  confess  failure  to 
"  the  Dictator !  "  It  was  hard. 

Professor  Trowbridge  slowly  grasped  all  that  the 
confession  meant.  Then,  sad  to  say,  he  lost  his 
temper. 

"  Something  ought  to  be  done,"  he  fumed.  "  All 
my  work  gone  for  nothing.  Things  like  this  ought 
not  to  be  permitted.  It  is  criminal,  criminal.  Um. 
There  ought  to  be  a  law.  This  Allen  Holworthy 
ought  to  be  in  jail " 

He  stopped  short  and  glared  at  the  doorway.  The 
others,  turning  instinctively,  followed  his  look. 
Standing  there,  his  tall  figure  slightly  bent,  his  eyes 
twinkling,  and  his  mouth  widened  in  an  expectant 
grin,  was  Roger  Mathewson. 

"  You  seem  to  be  excited,  professor,"  he  drawled. 
302 


EE  AD  JUST  ME  NTS 


"  Mathcwson !  "  All  the  professor's  unrcpressed 
irritation  concentrated  in  the  word. 

"  It's  all  right,  professor,"  continued  Mathewson, 
coming  in.  "  I'm  excited,  too.  I  came  right  up, 
Jones.  I  hope  you  don't  mind,  but  I —  He  put 
out  his  hand  and,  to  his  surprise,  Jones  took  it  in- 
stantly. "  By  George,  but  it's  a  relief  to  see  you. 
I've  been  afraid  you'd  do  something  desperate." 

Jones's  eyes  dropped  before  his,  but  Mrs.  Jones 
leaped  into  the  breach,  crowding  up  beside  her  hus- 
band, shoulder  to  shoulder. 

"  Why,  what  an  idea,  Roger ! "  she  declared,  ac- 
cusingly. "  Just  because  Edward  has  lost  some 
money?  He's  not  that  kind  of  a  man." 

She  flushed  before  Mathewson's  slow,  speculative 

smile. 

"  Of  course  you're  right,  Dot,"  he  said  heartily. 
"  And  I'm  wrong— thank  heaven,"  he  added  quietly, 
as  he  gave  Jones's  hand  an  added  shake. 

Jones  looked  up. 

"You  know  then?" 

"  Yes.  A  half  hour  ago.  I  went  to  your  office. 
You  were  gone,  so  I  came  up  here." 

"Was  it—"  Jones  cringed  a  little— "  was  any- 
thing in  the  papers?  " 

"  I  didn't  see  it.     No,  my  pardner  telephoned  me." 

"  Your  partner?  " 

303 


THE    YARDSTICK    MAX 


"  Yes."  Mathewson  delayed,  and  Professor  Trow- 
bridge,  his  anger  not  appeased  by  being  pushed  to  one 
side,  and  amazed,  blankly  amazed,  at  what  he  saw  and 
heard,  cleared  his  throat  in  the  awkward  pause.  The 
sound  seemed  to  remind  Jones  and  to  urge  him  on. 

"  Mathewson — "  he  began,  but  he  paused.  It  was 
hard,  bitterly  hard. 

"  Yes."  The  familiar  drawl  recalled  some  of  the 
old  antipathy.  He  crowded  it  back,  however,  deter- 
mined to  do  his  duty. 

"  I — I    owe    you    an    apology,"    he    stammered. 

«  T » 

"  You  owe  me  nothing,"  broke  in  Mathewson.  He 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  slight  flush  on  Mrs.  Jones's 
face  and  he  beamed,  even  as  he  hastened  to  her  rescue. 
"  Heigho,  tiddledy  aye — "  He  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders with  assumed  carelessness,  half  turning  away  as 
he  hummed.  Then  he  swung  back  quickly.  "  By 
George,  Jones,  it's  mighty  hard  luck  for  you.  What 
are  you  going  to  do  now?  "  The  humor  of  the  situa- 
tion caught  him,  and,  boyishly,  he  prolonged  it. 

Jones  gulped  a  sigh,  half  in  relief  for  what  was 
done  with,  half  in  realization  of  what  was  to  come. 
He  pushed  back  his  shoulders,  and  looked  Mathewson 
straight  in  the  eyes.  All  at  once  he  wanted  the  re- 
spect of  everyone,  even  of  this  man  at  whom,  from 
boyhood  up,  he  had  sneered. 

304 


READJUSTMENTS 


"  The  only  thing  I  can  do,  Mathewson,"  he  said 
with  an  effort :  "  Pay  up  and — start  new." 

To  his  surprise  Mathewson  laughed. 

"  Pay  up,  Jones ?  "  he  chuckled.  "  Pay  up?  Not 
one  cent.  Not  one  red  cent." 

Jones  frowned  at  him,  puzzled. 

"What  d'ye  mean,  Mathewson?" 

"  Just  what  I  say,"  retorted  Mathewson,  grinning 
mysteriously. 

Jones's  frown  deepened. 

"  It's  scarcely  a  thing  to  joke  about,"  he  said,  with 
something  of  his  customary  gruffness. 

This  only  seemed  to  start  Mathewson  chuckling  the 
harder. 

"  I'm  not  joking.  I'm  trying  to  get  you  to  guess. 
Be  a  boy  again,  Jones.  Guess.  Just  to  think,"  he 
added  with  a  whimsical  grin,  "  that,  all  the  while, 
neither  of  us  knew." 

Still  Jones  frowned.  He  felt  that  he  was  being 
baited  in  the  old  way.  In  spite  of  all  his  new  resolu- 
tions, he  resented  it. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  nbmit, 
Mathewson,"  he  said  sharply.  "  All  that  I  know  is 
that  I  have  got  to  pay  up—"  his  shoulders  sloped 
a  little  in  spite  of  him—"  every  cent  I  have  in  the 
world,  and  more,  too.  I've  got  to  mortgage  my 

future." 

305 


THE    YARDSTICK    MAN 


"  To  whom  ?  "  demanded  Mathewson,  his  eyes 
twinkling. 

"  Why,  to  Allen  Holworthy,  of  course."  Jones's 
annoyance  was  getting  the  better  of  him,  and  he 
snapped  out  the  words. 

"  Allen  Holworthy  ?  "  Mrs.  Jones  repeated  the 
name  thoughtfully. 

"  Jones,"  Mathewson  shook  his  head  in  mock  de- 
spair. "  It's  too  bad.  I  shall  have  to  tell  you,  and  I 
wanted  you  to  guess  it.  Oh,  Jones,  you're  hopelessly 
grown  up." 

He  paused  with  humorous  impressiveness. 

"  Jones,"  he  went  on,  in  a  mysterious  whisper, 
"  I'm  Allen  Holworthy."  He  laughed  aloud,  boy- 
ishly, as  he  saw  Jones's  blank,  staring  face.  "  And, 
as  I  said,"  he  drawled,  "  you  don't  owe  me  a  thing." 

It  was  Mrs.  Jones  who  spoke  first. 

"  Allen,  Allen — something-or-other,"  she  repeated. 
"  Mabel."  An  angry  flush  flashed  into  her  cheeks. 
"  Then  it's  you  who  have  been  persecuting  Edward  ?  " 
she  broke  out,  "  and  all  the  time  you  were  eating  his 
food,  living  in  this  house " 

"  Hush,  Dorothy."  Jones  caught  her  arm  with  a 
fierce  grip.  "  You  don't  understand." 

"  Bully  for  you,  Dot,"  cried  Mathewson. 

"  Mathewson — Holworthy !  "  Jones  still  doubted 
his  senses.  "  Is  it  true?  " 

306 


READJUSTMENTS 


Mathewson  nodded,  grinning. 

"  Cross  my  heart,  Jones,"  he  said.  Then,  half 
turning  to  where  Professor  Trowbridge  was  glower- 
ing at  him  over  his  spectacles,  he  added  irrepressi- 
bly :  "  The  professor  here  says  I  ought  to  be  in 
jail." 

"  I — I — I  didn't  know."  Professor  Trowbridge 
evidently  was  so  astounded  at  the  extraordinary  de- 
velopments that  he  had  lost  even  his  dignity. 

"  And  you'll  let  me  by  ?  "  Jones  began.  "  After 
all  I've " 

Mathewson's  big  hand  descended  upon  his  shoulder. 

"  Jones,"  he  said,  with  quick  earnestness,  "  do  you 
remember  I  told  you,  the  night  I  came,  that  I  wanted 
your  help  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I — I  put  you  off.  I  thought  you  wanted 
money." 

"  No,  not  money."  Mathewson  shook  his  head 
with  a  little  sigh.  "  I  wanted  your  friendship,  your 
comradeship  and  your  advice.  I  came  here  to  fight 
for  a  man  who  had  befriended  me,  fathered  me,  good- 
for-nothing  as  I  was.  No,  Jones,"  he  went  on,  his 
voice  vibrating  with  newly-found  power,  "I  didn't 
come  here  for  money.  I  came  for  justice;  good, 
plain,  American  justice.  I  wanted  to  save  for  him 
what  belonged  to  him,  if  anything  ever  belonged  to 

anybody." 

307 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


"  Yes,"  said  Jones.  He  was  trying  to  follow  the 
words,  although  his  head  was  giddy  at  the  unlooked- 
for  deliverance. 

"  My  little  pardner  said  to  me,"  went  on  Mathew- 
son,  a  softening  smile  at  his  mouth:  "  *  Carnahan 
ought  to  pay.'  " 

"  Your  partner?  " 

"  Yes.  To  make  Carnahan  pay  for  what  he  took 
from  us ;  and  by  George,  he's  done  it.  So,  you  see, 
I  don't  want  your  money.  You  haven't  always 
understood  me,  Jones.  Be  my  friend?  " 

Jones  grabbed  Mathewson's  extended  hand  and 
gripped  it  hard.  He  was  gulping  with  an  emotion 
which  stifled  speech.  Mrs.  Jones  utterly  broke  down. 

"  Oh,  Edward !     Roger !  "  she  sobbed. 

Mathewson  glanced  across  at  her.  He  felt  the 
wholesome  tears  coming  into  his  own  eyes,  and  he 
dropped  Jones's  hand. 

"  Heigho  tiddledy  aye —  Professor !  "  He  turned 
sharply  upon  the  perturbed  scholar.  "  You  sure 
look  unhappy." 

Once  more  Trowbridge  cleared  his  throat. 

"  I — I — scarcely  know  what  to  say,"  he  began, 
bowing  with  exaggerated  respect.  "  It  is  in  regard 
to  Mr.  Botts,"  he  continued  suggestively.  "  He  also, 
it  seems,  has  lost  money  in  this  panic  of  yours.  He 
is  therefore  unable — 

308 


EEADJUSTMENTS 


"  The  forty  thousand?  "  asked  Mathewson,  with  a 
grimace. 

"  Exactly,"  said  the  professor.  "  Of  course  I 
should  be  grateful ;  your  old  college,  Credmore,  would 
be  grateful,"  he  went  on  deferentially,  "  if  in  some 

way " 

"  Oh,  I  think  I  can  fix  that  up  for  you,  professor," 
broke  in  Mathewson.  "  I'll  take  care  of  him  if  he'll 
double  his  subscription,  and  pay  cash,  eh,  Jones?" 
He  winked  at  Jones  gayly. 

"  That  will  be  excellent,"  began  Trowbridge,  rub- 
bing his  hands  together,  ingratiatingly.  "  We  shall 
not  forget  it.  We— 

"  I'll  get  him  on  the  'phone  now—"  he  paused,  mis- 
chief in  his  twinkling  eyes—"  if  you'll  look  up  the 
number  for  me,  professor." 

"  Oh,  certainly,  certainly." 

As  the  professor  fumbled  over  the  telephone  book, 
Mathewson  winked  once  more  at  Jones,  and  even 

Jones  smiled. 

"Think  of  having  <  the  Dictator'  look  up  you 
telephone  numbers  for  you."  Mathewson  chuckle, 
at  the  professor's  confusion,  as  he  took  off 


ceiver. 


*  la. 

Is  that  you,  Mr.  Botts?  "  he  said  a  moment  1 
«  My  old  friend,  Professor  Trowbridge,  of  Cred, 
college,  teUs  me-"  he  began,  and  the  professor  * 

309 


THE    YARDSTICK    MAN 


appeased.  Indeed,  when  Mathewson  had  finished,  he 
was  profuse  in  his  gratitude. 

"  I — I — scarcely  know  how  to  thank  you,"  he 
began. 

"  You  embarrass  me,"  broke  in  Mathewson,  wicked- 
ly. "  Why,  I  wouldn't  have  you  think  well  of  me  for 
anything.  Credmore  wouldn't  seem  like  the  same 
place,  professor." 

"  But  I — "  began  the  professor.  Then  he  stopped, 
not  knowing  what  to  say.  "  I — I  suppose,"  he  went 
on,  "  it  would  be  better  for  me  to  go  over  and  see  Mr. 
Botts;  to — to  get  the  thing  on  paper,  as  it  were;  to 
make  sure " 

"Your  invariable  rule,  eh?"  taunted  Mathewson, 
his  face  solemn,  but  his  eyes  riotous  with  mischievous 
merriment. 

"  Yes,  exactly,"  declared  Trowbridge.  Then, 
seeing  the  smiles  on  the  faces  of  the  others,  he  became 
inexcusably,  extraordinarily,  hopelessly  embarrassed. 
Indeed,  it  was  worse  than  that.  He  lost  his  head 
completely,  and,  without  another  word,  he  snatched 
up  his  hat  and  rushed  from  the  room.  So  rapid  was 
his  egress  that  in  the  doorway  he  nearly  ran  plump 
into  Sheldon,  who  sidestepped  him  only  by  the  merest 
fraction  of  an  inch. 

Sheldon  stared  after  the  vanishing  professor. 

"  So !  "  he  said.  "  He  seems  to  be  in  a  hurry." 
310 


READJUSTMENTS 


Then,  catching  sight  of  Mathewson,  shaking  with 
merriment,  "  Hello !  "  he  said,  forgetting  instantly 
the  professor's  reckless  flight;  "you're  here,  eh? 
How  are  you?  Well,  you  were  wise  on  Pacific  and 
Eastern  all  right.  I  suppose  you've  heard  we've  shot 
the  chutes  for  keeps."  He  turned  to  where  his  part- 
ner was  standing.  "  I  was  pretty  rough  on  Jones 
here,  a  while  ago.  You  know  how  it  is;  down  and 
out,  nerves  on  edge,  temper  short.  It's  all  right, 
Jones,"  he  went  on.  "  We'll  get  out  of  this  some- 
how. Luck'll  turn ;  it  always  does." 

"  It  has  already,  Mr.  Sheldon,"  Mrs.  Jones  spoke 
quickly,  eager  to  tell  the  news.  "  Roger  Mathewson 
is  Allen  Holworthy." 

At  this  truthful  but  rather  confusing  statement  of 
the  case,  Sheldon  stared.  Only  for  a  moment,  how- 
ever. He  seized  Mathewson's  hand  and  pumped  it 
up  and  down  vigorously. 

"  Say,  put  it  there.  You  licked  old  man  Carna- 
han."  He  stood  off  and  looked  at  the  tall  man  with 
friendly  admiration.  "  Say,"  he  added,  "  I  might 
have  guessed  it." 

"Yes,"  agreed  Mathewson  with  a  grin,  "you 
might  have,  but  Jones  never  would." 

"And  you're  going  to  let  us  out?  Say,  that's 
square.  It's  a  whole  lot  whiter  than  we've  treated 
you.  We  didn't  let  you  in." 

311 


THE    YARDSTICK    MAN 


"  That  was  my  fault,"  said  Jones  at  once. 

"  Oh,  stop  talking  about  faults,"  broke  in  his  wife. 
"  What  difference  does  it  make?  It's  all  right  now, 
isn't  it?  Let's  go  down  and  have  some  lunch.  It 
must  be  cold  by  this  time." 

"Not  for  me,"  said  Sheldon..  "Me  for  home. 
That  kid  of  mine,"  he  declared  with  sudden  pride. 
"  She  didn't  care  about  it  before,  but  she'll  be  tickled 
to  death  now.  Women  are  funny,"  he  said.  Then 
he  looked  up  at  Mrs.  Jones  awkwardly.  "  Begging 
your  pardon,"  he  added.  "  Well,  good-by.  See 
you  later." 

"  Nor  for  me  either,"  drawled  Mathewson,  when 
Sheldon  had  gone.  "  At  least  I  don't  think  so." 
He  smiled.  "  Where's  my  little  pardner  ? "  he 
asked. 

"  Your  partner?  "  asked  Jones  again. 

"  Oh,  he  means  Mabel,  I  know  he  does,"  broke  in 
his  wife. 

"  Yes.  She's  been  my  little  pardner.  She  may 
not  know  much  about  Wall  Street,  Jones,  but  she 
knows  what's  square.  She  put  me  on  the  right 
track." 

"  She  went  home  this  morning,"  said  Mrs.  Jones 
quickly,  her  eyes  shining  with  feminine  suspicion. 
"  She  wasn't  very  well." 

"  Not  well?  "  repeated  Mathewson,  suddenly  grave. 
312 


READJUSTMENTS 


"  Oh,  it  wasn't  anything  serious,  Roger."  Mrs. 
Jones  spoke  with  mocking  inflection. 

Mathewson  crossed  to  her,  smiling,  and  took  her 
hand. 

"  You  can  laugh  at  me  as  much  as  you  like,"  he 
said.  Then,  turning  to  Jones.  "  And  you,  too, 
Jones.  It's  just  retribution." 

But  Jones  was  thinking  of  other  things. 
"  And  if  anything  should  happen  to  Holworthy," 
he  said,  thoughtfully,  "  you'll  be  the  head  of  the  Pa- 
cific and  Eastern."    There  was  congratulation  in  his 
voice,  but  Mathewson's  face  grew  grave  at  the  words. 
"  If  anything  should  happen?  "  he  repeated  wist- 
fully.    "  Jones — you  just   don't  understand.     But 
then,  why  should  you?  "  he  added,  trying  to  be  genial. 
"  Good-by."     He  turned  and  strode  out. 
"  Mathewson !  "  called  Jones. 
"  Roger !  "  called  his  wife. 

"  Sorry,"  came  the  drawling  voice  from  the  hall- 
way, good-humored  once  more.  "  I  can't  wait.  I'm 
in  a  hurry,  like  the  professor." 

Left  to  themselves,  Mrs.  Jones  drew  a  long,  happy 

sigh. 

«  Oh,  Edward,"  she  said.     "  Isn't  it  great  ? 
as  if  we  ought  to  celebrate,  this  afternoon.     What 

can  we  do  ?  " 

His  arm  went  about  her  and  drew  her  tightly  t 
21  313 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


him,  as  he  gazed  at  the  doorway  through  which 
Mathewson  had  gone. 

"  I'm  not  much  of  a  husband,  Dorothy." 

"  You're  the  best  husband  in  the  world,"  she  de- 
clared, with  eyes  suddenly  overflowing. 

"  He's  right,"  went  on  Jones  with  conviction.  "  I 
am  a  *  yardstick  man.' ' 

"  I  don't  know  what  it  means,"  retorted  his  wife, 
"  but  you're  not." 

He  looked  down  at  her  with  unaccustomed  tender- 
ness. 

"  I  think,"  he  said  slowly,  "  that  I  would  like  to 
celebrate  by  staying  home — with  you." 

Then  he  kissed  her,  straining  her  to  him  with  the 
old  passion  of  possession. 

"  Edward,"  she  said,  breathlessly,  a  moment  later, 
shaking  her  head  at  him  reprovingly,  "  that  wasn't 
a  husband's  kiss.  It  was  a  lover's  kiss." 

"  Yes,"  he  said  almost  fiercely.  He  kissed  her 
again.  And  it  did  not  matter,  suddenly,  how  tired 
and  dizzy  he  was,  or  even — yes,  perhaps  even  that — 
that  his  money  was  not  lost. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

A   NEW    ROSALIND 

A"1  the  corner  Mathewson  hailed  a  passing  cab. 
He  kept  it  waiting,  however,  while  he  bought  a 
handful  of  evening  papers  at  the  news-stand.  He 
turned,  reflectively,  to  the  waiting  driver,  and  gave 
him  the  address. 

"  What's  the  fastest  time  you  have  ever  made?  "  he 
asked  solemnly. 

"  I— I  don't  know,  sir.     Why?  " 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Mathewson.  "  Only  what- 
ever it  was,  beat  it." 

He  jumped  in,  and  they  started.  Laying  the 
papers  down  beside  him  on  the  seat,  he  picked  them 
up,  one  after  the  other,  and  read  the  glaring  head- 
lines delightedly.  He  had  amounted  to  something 
after  all,  he  told  himself.  It  was  the  first  time  that 
his  name  ever  had  been  in  print,  that  he  could  remem- 
ber; and  in  such  print!  He  held  the  paper  away 
from  him  and  stared  at  it,  chuckling.  Nobody  who 
came  within  a  mile  of  New  York  could  help  knowing 
about  Allen  Holworthy  to-day,  he  laughed  to  himself. 

What  a  joke  it  was.  He  was  the  same  chap  he  had 
315 


THE    YAEDSTICK   MAN 


been,  a  few  days  before,  when  Kelsey,  of  the  L.  &  B., 
had  warned  him,  just  because  he  was  his  friend. 
Then  he  had  been  unknown,  and  here  he  was,  tempo- 
rarily the  most-talked-about  man  in  the  big  city.  He 
reflected,  grinning,  that  human  nature  loves  to  be 
humbugged.  Of  course  he  was  a  humbug;  he  knew 
that.  He  wasn't  the  marvelous  financial  genius  that 
the  reporters  had  written  about.  After  all,  there  was 
mighty  little  difference  between  the  cleverest  man  on 
earth  and  the  dullest;  between  the  richest  man  on 
earth  and  the  poorest ;  between  the  best  man  on  earth 
and  the  worst.  Folks  were  folks,  when  all  was  said 
and  done. 

And  then  there  were  the  pictures.  He  laughed  so 
loudly  over  them  that  the  driver  looked  back  at  him, 
wondering,  probably,  thought  Mathewson,  what  kind 
of  an  idiot  he  had  in  his  cab.  But  those  pictures ! 
One  showed  him  fat-faced  with  a  mustache,  and  an- 
other was  of  an  anaemic  young  person,  with  sorrowful, 
soulful  eyes.  He  couldn't  help  wondering  who  the 
originals  of  these  hastily  rushed-in  photographs  were. 
Oh,  well,  the  public  would  be  just  as  well  satisfied,  he 
laughed  to  himself,  the  public  which  liked  to  be  hum- 
bugged. He  was  one  of  them  himself.  He  never 
had  gotten  over  his  love  for  the  bearded  lady  and 
the  snake  charmer,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  dear  old 
humbugs  of  his  youth.  What  a  lot  of  kids  people 

316 


A    NEW   ROSALIND 


were,  anyhow,  and,  he  declared,  he  loved  them  for  it, 
bless  'em  all. 

Then  there  were  the  accounts  of  his  early  life. 
They  were  as  divergent  as  the  photographs  and  as 
untrue,  but  what  did  it  matter?  He  read  them  all 
delightedly.  He  was  all  kinds  of  a  great  man,  he  said 
to  himself,  and  grinned  at  his  own  humor. 

His  eye  picked  out  phrases  here  and  there.  "  Mil- 
lions lost  in  an  hour."  "  Pandemonium  on  the  Ex- 
change." Millions!  Pandemonium!  Whew!  But 
he  had  made  a  stir.  Millions!  Well,  nobody  had 
lost  except  Carnahan  and  the  Street  gamblers,  he  told 
himself.  The  solid,  investing  public  didn't  sell  short. 
As  for  the  gamblers,  he  didn't  want  their  money.  To 
make  Carnahan  pay!  He  dropped  his  paper  and 
stared  dreamily  ahead.  He  was  going  to  her ;  going 
to  her  now,  just  as  fast  as  this  slow,  old,  one-horse 
contraption  could  carry  him. 

There  was  only  one  cloud  on  the  horizon  now. 
Daddy!  Well,  that  would  clear  away.  It  must. 
There  could  be  no  shadow  on  his  heart  now.  He 
knew  the  old  man's  dogged  pluck,  his  big,  unsatisfied 
ambitions,  more  buoyant  and  vigorous  than  those  of 
many  a  youngster  like  himself.  It  was  the  old  man 
who  had  stirred  his  own,  those  dormant  ambitions, 
which  he  had  not  known  he  possessed;  ambitions  for 
achievement  and  service,  not  for  sheer  gam. 

317 


THE   YAKDSTICK   MAN 


The  old  man  never  would  quit,  he  said  to  himself, 
proudly,  and  with  renewed  hope.  He  would  take  her 
out  there  with  him.  He  could  fairly  see  the  old  man 
look  approval  from  under  his  shaggy  eyebrows  and 
then — his  dream  faded.  Would  she  go?  Could  she 
care  for  a  lean,  homely  roustabout  like  him?  His 
jaw  settled  into  firm  solidity,  although  his  eyes  were, 
if  anything,  tenderer.  She  must,  that  was  all. 

He  jumped  out  of  the  cab  before  it  stopped,  in 
front  of  the  parsonage.  Mother  Wright  answered 
his  knock.  Mabel?  She  was  up  in  the  woods  yon- 
der, had  been  there  ever  since  dinner.  The  girl  was 
rather  peaked,  Mother  Wright  went  on,  volubly. 
But  a  little  outdoors  would  put  her  right,  she  added 
with  her  calm  faith  in  the  essential  goodness  of  things. 

And  the  parson?  Oh,  he  was  over  at  the  church. 
Mother  Wright  shook  her  head  a  little  anxiously. 
He  was  all  out  of  sorts,  too.  He  had  been  working 
too  hard,  poor  man.  Probably  as  soon  as  Sunday 
was  over,  he  would  be  himself  again,  but  she  hoped 
that  Mathewson  would  go  right  over.  It  would  do 
the  parson  a  world  of  good. 

Mathewson  was  halfway  down  the  walk,  before  she 
had  finished. 

"  I'll  see  them  both  before  I  go  back,"  he  called, 
"  and  you,  too." 

She  watched  the  cab  drive  on  up  the  street,  and 
318 


A    NEW   ROSALIND 


turned  back  to  her  work  with  a  bright  smile.     He 
was  a  cheery  lad,  she  said  to  herself. 

Mathewson  stopped  the  cab,  a  block  beyond,  in 
front  of  a  row  of  shops.  An  idea  had  come  to  him, 
and  he  acted  upon  it.  He  emerged  once  more,  after 
having  purchased  a  paper  of  pins  and  a  pad  of  paper, 
which  he  smuggled  into  his  pocket  with  the  utmost 
boyish  secrecy,  just  as  if  there  had  been  someone  by, 
to  see  him  do  it. 

Where  the  roadway  touched  the  edge  of  the  woods, 
he  jumped  out  eagerly,  and,  having  overpaid  the  cab- 
man egregiously,  he  sent  him  off  about  his  business. 
Then  he  plunged  off  among  the  trees. 

It  was  not  much  of  a  wood,  scarcely  more  than  a 
clump  of  trees  to  him,  fresh  from  the  big  western 
forests.  But,  in  spite  of  the  encroaching  city,  it 
was  fairly  unspoiled,  with  plenty  of  wild,  tangled 
undergrowth,  and  with  a  tiny,  trickling  brook  slip- 
ping, like  a  silver  thread,  through  its  shadow. 

He  followed  the  brook,  sensing,  somehow,  that  she 
would  be  near  it,  and  almost  at  once  he  found  her. 
She  was  sitting  on  a  low  boulder  which  hung  do 
beside  the  water,  jutting  out  into  it  and  barring  . 
way,  so  that  the  water  rushed  by  on  the  other  s 
with  a  little,  pent-up,  gurgling  melody.    The  . 
it  hid  his  footsteps,  and  she  sat  there,  unnoticing,  b 
frail,  white  figure  spirit-like  against  the  dark 

819 


THE    YARDSTICK    MAN 


ground  of  rock  and  foliage.  He  stopped  a  while, 
caressing  her  with  his  gaze.  Then  he  smiled  to  him- 
self, and,  stooping,  he  picked  up  a  stone.  He  drew 
forth  one  of  the  sheets  of  paper  he  had  prepared,  and, 
extracting  a  pin  from  his  pocket,  he  proceeded  to  affix 
the  paper  to  the  nearest  tree,  hammering  steadily, 
his  back  to  her. 

At  the  first  sound  she  looked  up,  startled.  She 
gazed  at  him  for  a  moment,  incredulous.  Then  she 
slipped  to  her  feet. 

"You!"  she  cried. 

Mathewson  turned  to  her  with  a  whimsical  frown. 

"  Hush,"  he  said.  "  You're  not  supposed  to  see 
me." 

He  loped  off  to  another  tree  near  by,  and  repeated 
the  process. 

"  You  see,"  he  added  to  the  girl,  who  stood  stock- 
still,  watching  him  wonderingly,  "  it  isn't  your  cue. 
You  don't  come  on  to  the  stage,  until  I've  left  it." 

\ 

Slowly  comprehension  dawned  upon  the  girl's  face. 
She  smiled  across  at  his  broad  back,  mischievously, 
falling  into  the  play. 

"  I  warn  you,"  she  called,  a  pink  flush  stealing  into 
her  cheeks,  "  I'm  going  to  enter  now." 

Something  caught  at  her  throat  as  he  turned  and 
looked  at  her.  She  could  not  bear  his  eyes.  They 
were  so  steady  and  so  tender;  so  wonderfully  tender, 

320 


A    NEW   ROSALIND 


Slowly,  hesitatingly,  as  if  fearful  in  her  eagerness, 
she  approached  the  tree  where  the  paper  hung, 
waving  in  the  light  breeze,  and,  reaching  up,  she  tore 
it  down,  with  hands  that  trembled  a  little.  The  big, 
roughly  scrawled  letters  were  clear  enough,  but  her 
eyes  made  them  hazy  and  indistinct. 

"  I  love  you,  little  pardner  Rosalind." 

She  swayed  a  little,  as  with  the  breeze.  Then  her 
hand  stretched  out  to  him,  and  the  paper  floated  off 
on  the  air,  to  where  the  brook  gurgled  merrily  under 
the  shade  of  the  boulder. 

"  I  didn't  make  my  exit,"  he  said  softly,  coming  to 
her.  "  I  ought  to  have  gone  away." 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  no !  "  she  sobbed  in  his  arms.  "  Don't 
ever  go  away  again.  My  boy,"  she  whispered,  out  of 
of  her  motherly  young  heart.  "  My  great  big,  won- 
derful boy." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE    PARSON'S    FEE 

PARSON  WRIGHT,  struggling  in  his  little 
study  with  a  sermon  for  the  morrow,  struggling 
against  worry  and  trouble  which  would  not  down, 
was  surprised  to  look  up  and  see,  peering  in  at 
him  through  the  doorway,  his  daughter's  eyes,  bright 
and  happy  now,  and  above  them,  Mathewson's  with 
their  keen  twinkle.  They  had  stolen  in  like  a  pair 
of  children.  Now,  discovered,  they  fairly  rushed 
upon  him. 

"  Why,  what's  all  this  ?  "  he  demanded.  "  Matty ! 
Where  did  you  come  from  ?  "  He  glanced  from  one 
to  the  other  questioningly. 

"  We  came  to  the  nearest  preacher,"  drawled 
Mathewson,  with  a  long,  slow  wink  at  the  girl,  "  be- 
cause we  wanted  to  get  married.  And,  oh,  by  the 
way,  parson,  here's  the  fee." 

He  fumbled  in  his  pocket,  and  pulled  forth  a  check. 

Mr.  Wright  stared  at  him  dumbly,  and  then  at  the 
check. 

"  Oh — oh,  not  as  much  as  that,  Matty." 

"  That's  what  it  comes  to,"  said  Mathewson  smil- 


THE   PARSON'S   FEE 


ing,  as  the  girl,  her  eyes  suddenly  misty,  crept  into 
the  shelter  of  his  arms. 

"  But,  I — I  oughtn't  to  take  it,"  stammered  the 
preacher. 

"  Bless  your  conscientious  old  heart,"  laughed 
Mathewson.  "  I  knew  you'd  say  that,  if  it  turned 
out  right.  That's  why  I  took  your  money.  It  was 
a  chance.  You  took  it,  and  won.  It's  yours.  And, 
parson,"  he  added,  his  arm  tightening  about  the  girl. 
"  I'm  asking  a  lot  in  return." 

The  preacher  eyed  them  for  a  minute,  a  sudden 
ache  at  his  heart.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  seen 
another  man's  arm  around  his  daughter's  waist. 

"  Yes,  Matty,"  he  said,  solemnly,  "  you  are." 

"  Especially,"  Mathewson  went  on,  "  as  I  have  to 
leave  for  the  West  to-night  and,  parson,"  he  added, 
"  I  want  to  take  her  with  me." 

The  preacher's  eyes  wavered  to  her. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  simply,  as  if  in  answer  to  a  ques- 
tion. 

He  sat  looking  at  her  a  moment  or  two  more. 
Then  he  sprang  up  and,  clearing  his  throat,  he  closed 
with  a  bang  the  portfolio  in  which  he  had  been  writing. 

"  And  how  do  expect  an  old  preacher  like  me,"  he 
demanded,  with  Assumed  sharpness,  "  to  be  able  to 
preach  to-morrow  in  the  face  of  all  this?  To  think 
of  having  my  girl  run  away  from  me  with  hardly  a 

323 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


minute's  warning.  Have  you  told  your  mother 
yet?" 

"  No."     Her  eyes  were  moist  now.     "  Not  yet." 

"  Good,"  declared  the  preacher.  "  We'll  go  and 
surprise  mother." 

He  could  not  keep  it  up,  however.  The  first  and 
the  pride  of  his  flock  was  to  go. 

"  Mathewson,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  you'll  be 
good  to  her?  " 

"  I'll  try,  parson." 

Mabel,  clinging  to  his  arm,  looked  up  into  his  face 
with  utter  trust. 

"  There  aren't  to  be  any  goblins  in  our  house." 

"  Goblins  ?  "  demanded  the  preacher. 

"  Not  one,"  said  Mathewson,  devoutly. 


CHAPTER  XX 

DADDY 

AL  day  Mathewson  had  eluded  the  reporters,  but, 
toward  its  close,  one  found  him,  before  the 
wires  had  brought  him  the  message. 

"  Thanks.     No,  nothing  to  say." 

Mabel  heard  the  dull,  stunned  voice,  and,  because 
she  was  a  woman  and  loved  him,  she  understood.  As 
he  came  slowly  back  into  the  parsonage  parlor,  she 
rose  to  meet  him,  her  eyes  already  wet  with  wistful 
tears. 

"  I  know.  I  know,"  she  whispered.  "  Dear,  let 
me  be  your  compensation." 

"  Little  pardner." 

He  was  not  ashamed  of  tears,  but  he  did  not  weep. 
It  was  too  deep  for  that.  He  sat,  for  many  long 
minutes,  his  eyes  narrowed,  his  mouth  set,  unstirring 
save  as  his  hand  patted  hers. 

He  did  not  know  that  the  old  man  had  held  out, 
beyond  all  the  doctors'  hopes.  He  did  not  know  that 
the  brave  old  fighter,  with  his  telegrams  as  ammuni- 
tion, had  kept  death  at  bay.  He  did  not  know  that,  at 
the  end,  Daniel  Holworthy  had  passed  away,  with  a 

325 


THE    YARDSTICK   MAN 


grim  smile  of  victory,  nor  that  his  last  triumphant 
telegram  had  brought  that  smile  to  the  old  man's 
worn  face. 

"  A  king,  little  pardner,  a  king,"  he  said  at  last. 
"  I  wish  he  could  have  lived.  I  wish  he  might  have 
known  you — "  his  voice  broke — "  and  you,  him.  I 
wish — "  He  paused,  as  if  hushed  by  a  message  from 
the  dead.  "  But,  pardner,  he  wouldn't  want  me  to 
wish.  He'd  want  me  to  work.  He  was  a  builder, 
not  only  of  things,  but  of  himself.  He  was  a 
builder." 

Slowly  he  stretched  out  his  arm,  and  she  nestled 
within  it,  kneeling  beside  him.  . 

"  So,  pardner,"  he  went  on  softly,  "  we'll  build, 
day  in,  day  out,  as  near  the  way  he  did  as  we  can. 
It — it's  bound  to  come  out  all  right  in  the  end.  I'm 
not  as  much  of  a  church-goer  as  I  ought  to  be,  pard- 
ner, but  I  reckon — it  has  with  him." 

(*> 

THE    END 


